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UNivtwjifY  or 

CALU  OHV«IA 

SAN  DIEGO 


J 


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[See  page  167 
NO    HOUSE    WHICH    DID    NOT    STAND   IN    A    GROUP   OF   TREES 


ALONG 
NEW   ENGLAND   ROADS 


BY 
W.  C.   PRIME,  LL.D. 

AUTHOR   or 

"I  GO  a-fishing"  etc. 


ILLUSTRATED 


HARPER  6f  BROTHERS   PUBLISHERS 
NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 


Along  New  England  Roads 


Copyright.  1892,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 
Printed  in  the  United  Sutes  of  America 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

NO  HOUSE  WHICH  DID  NOT  STAND  IN  A  GROUP 

OF  TREES ProttHspkce 

THE    CHURCH-BELL     ANNOUNCES     "EVENING 

meeting" Facing  p.       22 

A   MOUNTAIN   ROAD "  86 

ON   THE   PROFILE   ROAD "  124 


PREFACE 


DROBABLY  no  one  ever  made  a  book  for  the  reason 
which  induces  the  making  of  this.  The  papers  here 
gathered  were  written,  as  letters,  to  a  daily  newspaper, 
the  New  Yox\<i  Journal  of  Commerce,  in  the  course  of  a  cor- 
respondence which  has  extended  over  more  than  forty 
years.  Although  often  asked  to  gather  them  in  a  book, 
my  judgment  has  been  that  such  letters,  however  read- 
able or  unreadable  when  occasionally  appearing  in  one's 
morning  newspaper,  are  not  good  material  for  continuous 
reading  in  a  solid  book.  They  were  written  for  the  pur- 
pose of  a  day,  served  their  purpose,  disappeared,  and  I 
had  no  wish  to  recall  them.  But  they  had  been  cut  out 
and  preserved  by  more  than  one  person,  strangers  to  me, 
who  have  severally  written  me  that  if  I  do  not  make  a 
book  of  them  they  will !  Should  such  a  book  be  made 
by  another  person,  it  would  perpetuate  many  sad  errors 
of  type,  such  as  occur  in  rapid  newspaper  work,  and  be 
a  misfortune  to  the  papers  and  to  me.  There  was  but 
one  way  to  protect  the  dead  and  long-buried  sketches — 
namely,  to  select  some  of  them,  revise,  correct,  and  edit 
them,  and  make  a  book,  which  1  have  done  only  because 
1  did  not  want  it  made. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTBX  TAGS 

I.   ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS I 

II.    IN   SOUTHERN   VERMONT l^ 

III.    A   VILLAGE   DISCUSSION 34 

IV.    UPHILL  IN   FOG 41 

V.    SWEET-SCENTED   FERN 45 

VI.    AN  angler's   august   DAY 54 

VII.    VIEWS   FROM   A   HILL-TOP 63 

VIII.    HIGHLANDS  OF   WESTERN   NEW   HAMPSHIRE      .       70 

IX,    THE  triumphant   CHARIOT 77 

X,    A  DEAD   LETTER 85 

XI.   EPITAPHS  AND  NAMES 97 

XII.    FINDING   NEW   COUNTRY 1 24 

XIII.    BOYS  WITH  STAND-UP  COLLARS 136 

XIV.    PILGRIMAGE   ENDED I43 

XV.    NON-RESISTANCE I52 

XVI.    SONGS   OF  THE  AGES 160 

XVII.    IGNOTUS 167 

XVIII.    SEEKING  A   BETTER   COUNTRY 175 

XIX.    A   WINTER   night's   ERRAND I83 

XX.    HINTS   FOR  CARRIAGE  TRAVBL I90 


ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 


The  carriage  was  standing  at  the  door,  and  I 
had  finished  my  morning  inspection  of  horses, 
harness,  bolts,  and  gearing.  We  were  on  one  of 
our  favorite  journeys,  wandering  over  the  hills  and 
through  the  valleys  of  New  Hampshire  and  Ver- 
mont. We  had  driven  already  two  or  three  hun- 
dred miles,  seeking  only  that  which  we  found  daily, 
scenery,  sunshine,  birds,  flowers,  whatever  of  nat- 
ure and  whatever  of  humanity  might  be  seen  as 
we  wandered  along  New  England  roads. 

A  gentleman  who  was  standing  in  the  hotel  door- 
way said  •  "I  am  told  you  travel  a  great  deal  with 
horses  and  carriage.  It  puzzles  me  to  know  what 
pleasure  you  find  in  it.  I  have  travelled  in  that 
way  in  Europe,  but  I  don't  understand  what  at- 
tractions you  find  in  New  England." 

He  expressed  the  idea  which  is  in  many  minds. 
I  could  not  aiTord  to  waste  the  morning  in  recount- 
ing to  him  the  delights  of  carriage  journeying.  I 
gave  him  but  a  brief  summary  of  these,  told  him 


2  ALONG    NEW    ENGLAND    ROADS 

there  was  no  country  in  the  world  which  was  so 
charming  to  the  traveller  as  this  country,  nor  one 
in  which  scenery  was  more  varied  and  beautiful, 
nor  one  in  which  country  inns  were  so  good,  country 
people  so  hospitable,  and  finished  by  saying :  "  Try 
it  for  yourself,  and  if  you  don't  enjoy  it  don't  do  it 
again." 

The  road  was  in  that  charming  country  which 
lies  south  of  the  White  Mountain  range.  We  had 
followed  the  Pemigewasset  River  from  its  source 
in  Profile  Lake,  under  the  Old  Man  of  the  Mount- 
ain, day  after  day,  until  we  had  left  it  at  Franklin 
Falls,  and  were  now  following  our  varying  whims 
from  valley  to  valley,  over  highlands  and  hills, 
through  the  very  heart  of  the  Granite  State. 

It  was  in  May.  The  forests  farther  north  had 
been  just  tinged  with  that  delicious  mauve  color 
which  is  caused  by  the  swelling  buds  of  the  ma- 
ples, and  which  from  day  to  day  changes  into  pink 
and  hazy  sky  blue  and  at  length,  when  the  buds 
burst,  into  green.  But  here  the  green  had  won  the 
day,  and  the  view  in  all  directions,  as  I  drove 
along,  was  fresh  and  full  of  promise.  When  the 
road  led  through  forest  both  sides  were  luxuriant 
with  the  close -packed  masses  of  ferns  just  com- 
mencing summer  life,  and  in  the  woods  were  hosts 
of  purple  and  striped  blossoms  of  the  trilium,  the 
glory  of  our  northern  forests  in  the  early  season. 
I  came  out  from  a  piece  of  woods  on  a  plain  where 


ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS         3 

the  road  went  straight  ahead  in  full  view  for  a 
half-mile.  Nearly  that  distance  ahead  stood  a 
farm-house,  with  its  barns  and  out-buildings.  The 
house  stood  back  from  the  road  among  fruit-trees, 
some  of  which  were  in  blossom.  But  what  espe- 
cially attracted  attention  was  a  large  number  of 
horses  and  wagons,  vehicles  of  various  descriptions, 
which  made  the  front  yard  and  the  road  near  the 
house  look  black. 

Only  two  events  in  the  country  life  are  likely  to 
cause  such  a  gathering  around  a  house.  When 
you  see  it  you  are  quite  safe  in  thinking  that  there 
is  a  funeral  or  an  auction  sale.  Either  is  sure  to, 
bring  together  all  the  wagons  of  a  very  wide-spread 
population.  There  is  this  difference,  however,  that 
to  the  funeral  men  and  women  and  children  come, 
but  to  the  "  vandue  "  only  men. 

As  I  approached  the  house  I  began  to  pass 
horses  tied  to  fences  and  small  trees.  Everything 
in  the  shape  of  a  hitching  -  post,  everything  to 
which  a  halter  could  be  tied,  was  in  use,  and  when 
I  reached  the  front  gate  there  were  groups  of  men 
so  occupied  here  and  there  that  no  doubt  could 
exist  that  this  was  an  auction  sale.  It  was  un- 
doubtedly a  funeral  in  one  sense,  not  of  any  one 
dead,  but  of  a  home.  It  was  the  extinguishment 
of  a  fire  that  had  been  burning  on  a  hearth  a  great 
many  years.  It  took  but  a  little  while  to  learn 
from  those  who  were  grouped  near  the  gate  the  rea- 


4         ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

sons  for  the  auction.  This  group  consisted  of  men 
who  had  come  only  because  it  was  an  occasion  for 
meeting  people,  a  chance  for  general  talk  and  ex- 
change of  little  news,  a  break  in  the  monotony 
of  country  life.  Near  the  barn  was  another  group, 
inspecting  cows.  They  had  no  interest  in  the  sale 
of  furniture  in  the  house.  On  the  front  lawn  was 
another  group.  I  fancied  they  were  discussing  the 
value  of  the  farm,  whether  it  was  worth  the  mort- 
gage on  it,  whether  any  one  was  likely  to  bid  on 
it.  As  I  walked  in  towards  the  door  I  saw  that 
there  were  people  in  all  parts  of  the  house,  most 
of  them  in  the  large  kitchen  whence  the  voice  of 
the  auctioneer  was  audible.  As  I  entered  he  was 
selling  cooking  utensils,  getting  from  a  cent  to  six 
cents  apiece,  rarely  as  much  as  ten  cents  for  any 
article. 

I  confess  that,  as  I  looked  around  this  kitchen 
on  this  scene,  I  felt  very  much  as  if  it  were  a  fu- 
neral, and  began  to  think  that  I  had  an  interest  in, 
a  personal  acquaintance  with  the  departed.  It 
had  been  for  a  long  lifetime  the  home  of  an  honest, 
respected  farmer,  who  had  recently  died;  an  old 
man  whose  work  was  ended.  His  children,  all  but 
one  daughter,  had  gone  to  distant  parts  of  the 
country.  His  wife  had  died  a  year  before.  The 
property  must  be  sold  to  settle  his  small  estate, 
pay  his  funeral  expenses  and  perhaps  other  claims. 
There  was  to  be  also  an  attempt  to  find  a  pur- 


ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS  5 

chaser  for  the  farm,  but  it  was  thought  the  holder 
of  a  mortgage  on  it  would  be  the  only  possible 
bidder. 

That  life  was  to  be  closed  out  forever.  Where- 
in much  of  it  had  consisted  was  here  visible.  It 
was  displayed  for  public  view,  and  any  stranger  was 
free  to  rove  from  room  to  room  and  see  the  record , 
for  nothing  was  reserved;  not  even  the  clothing, 
or  the  old  man's  silver  watch,  or  his  wife's  work- 
basket  with  knitting  needles  and  scissors,  and  a 
knife  with  a  broken  blade,  and  a  ball  of  blue  yarn 
and  a  half-knit  woollen  stocking. 

Here  was  a  summing  up  of  the  total  reward  in 
this  world's  valuables  which  a  long,  laborious  life 
had  earned.  I  can  never  cease  to  feel  indignation 
at  the  preachers  about  labor  and  its  rewards  who 
imagine  that  workmen  in  the  trades  are  the  only 
laborers  to  be  considered;  who  are  deceived  by 
the  idea  that  the  various  societies  of  "  working- 
men"  represent  one -tenth  of  the  hard-working 
men  of  our  country;  who  imagine  that  the  labor 
question  relates  only  to  that  small  number  of  per- 
sons who  work  for  fixed  pay,  eight  or  ten  hours  a 
day. 

The  life  of  this  man  from  his  childhood  had  been 
one  of  incessant  labor,  hard  work,  beginning  daily 
long  before  daylight,  ending  so  wearily  after  dark 
that  he  welcomed  sleep  as  the  only  rest  he  knew. 
Your  ten  -  hour  city  laborer  does  not  know  what 


6  ALONG   NEW    ENGLAND    ROADS 

work  means,  and  never  will  know  till  he  acquires  a 
farm  and  has  to  support  life  by  digging  for  himself, 
paying  himself  for  his  work,  and  finding  that  to 
the  vast  body  of  American  farmers  fourteen  hours 
a  day  labor  earns  bare  subsistence. 

The  life  labor  in  this  house  and  on  this  farm 
showed  in  the  end,  as  the  laborer's  pay  when  all 
work  was  done,  just  nothing  beyond  the  bare  sup- 
port of  the  life.  Less,  indeed,  than  that,  for  there 
was  a  mortgage  on  the  farm,  which  represented  a 
demand  of  some  pressing  need,  or  a  steady,  slow 
falling  behind  from  year  to  year. 

The  home  furniture  was  not  luxurious  ^  far  oth- 
erwise. But  it  was  not  altogether  without  interest. 
There  was  an  old  chest  of  drawers  in  one  room 
which  probably  belonged  to  the  mother,  possibly 
came  from  her  mother  when  she  was  married.  It 
was  made  of  solid  cherry-wood,  and  the  old  brass 
mountings  were,  for  a  wonder,  brilliant  as  if  new. 
There  was  a  small  looking-glass  hanging  on  a  wall, 
in  a  frame  once  of  great  beauty,  the  relief  orna- 
ments on  it  being  ears  of  golden  grain.  There 
were  some  pictures  in  black-pine  frames,  without 
glass.  None  had  any  money  value,  but  each  had 
higher  than  money  value,  because  they  had  been 
the  delights  of  that  family  life.  Children  had 
grown  up  looking  at  them  daily,  their  young  imag- 
inations wandering  far  away  under  the  guiding  in- 
fluence of  art.     Mark  you,  my  friend,  art  brings  its 


ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS         f 

blessings  not  alone  by  the  power  of  renowned  art- 
ists, by  the  works  of  great  masters.  There  are  very 
rude  pictures,  pictures  which  provoke  the  derision 
of  ignorant  critics,  pictures  which  have  had  mighty 
influence  in  swaying  human  minds.  There  was  a 
fifteenth  -  century  artist  in  Cologne  whose  Bible 
pictures  in  rough  hard  outlines  were  the  educators 
of  millions  of  people  for  a  century  and  more  after 
he  was  dead.  It  is  the  thought  written  in  the  pict- 
ure which  is  its  power,  not  the  execution,  which  is 
of  account  to  very  few  who  see  it.  There  is  no 
possible  doubt  that  that  old  painted  print  of  Ruth 
gleaning,  and  that  other  of  the  raising  of  the  wid- 
ow's son  of  Nain,  had  impressed  lessons  on  young 
minds  not  to  be  effaced  in  this  world's  experiences, 
perhaps  not  in  any  other  world. 

The  old  kitchen  seemed  to  be  the  place  wherein 
the  life  had  left  its  strongest  marks,  And  yet  they 
were  not  many.  There  was  a  little  printed  calen- 
dar of  a  year  long  ago  pasted  on  the  side  of  the 
chimney.  There  was  a  clock  (not  worth  your  pur- 
chasing, my  friend)  standing  high  up  on  a  wooden 
shelf.  There  was  a  dresser  whereon  the  family 
crockery  was  piled  for  sale.  Having  in  mind 
friends  who  want  old  crockery,  I  looked  over  the 
pieces,  one  by  one,  but  found  nothing  worth  a 
stranger's  purchasing,  except,  perhaps,  one  English 
plate  with  a  blue  print,  the  rich  dark  blue  wherein 
the  cheap  Staffordshire  wares  surpassed  all  other, 


8         ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

Oriental  or  Occidental,  potteries  or  porcelains.  But 
the  table  was  there,  a  very  old  square  table,  made 
of  black-ash,  with  four  solid  legs.  It  had  no  claim 
to  notice  for  any  beauty  about  it.  But  around  it 
the  family  had  been  gathered  morning,  noon,  and 
evening.  First  the  young  man  and  his  young  wife 
had  sat  there  alone,  happy,  hopeful.  Years  had 
fulfilled  all  they  had  hoped  for,  had  brought  little 
heads  to  the  sides  of  the  table,  and  years  had 
changed  them  into  older  and  perhaps  wiser  heads. 
All  the  troubles  and  all  the  happiness  of  every  one 
of  them  had  been  brought  to  the  assemblies  at  that 
kitchen  table.  Christmases,  Thanksgiving  days, 
wedding-days  of  daughters,  days  when  the  minister 
was  to  make  his  annual  visit,  all  the  gala-days  of 
life  had  loaded  the  table  with  unusual  feasts.  And 
always  with  unfailing  humility  and  gratitude,  the 
voice  of  the  father  had  been  heard  at  the  head  of 
the  board  thanking  God  as  sincerely  as  if  the  farm 
had  been  a  gold-mine  instead  of  slow- yielding 
soil. 

I  was  in  the  house  but  a  few  minutes.  As  I 
drove  rapidly  down  the  road  I  overtook  a  man, 
going  home  from  the  sale.  I  am  not  fond  of  "buy- 
ing bargains  "  in  such  cases.  If  there  had  been 
anything  to  tempt  me  I  could  not  comfortably  own 
a  purchase  out  of  that  household  at  the  poor  prices 
things  were  bringing.  But  this  man  was  carrying 
home  something.     As  I  turned  out  and  drove  by 


ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS         9 

him  he  held  it  up  for  me  to  see.  We  went  along 
side  by  side. 

"  What  have  you  got  there  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  think  it's  an  old  pitcher  they 
used  in  a  church." 

'•  What  did  you  buy  it  for  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  s'pose  I  can  sell  it  to  some 
one." 

"  How  much  do  you  want  for  it  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  it's  worth." 

"  Well,  speak  quick,  if  you  want  to  sell,"  and  my 
horses  were  pulling  ahead  hard. 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  care  to  sell  it." 

"  All  right,"  and  I  went  ahead  rapidly. 

"Will  you  give  two  dollars?"  came  in  a  shout 
after  me. 

"  Will  you  take  it  ?" 

"  Yes." 

He  came  up  alongside  of  me  and  I  took  my  pur- 
chase. It  was  never  church  property  ;  quite  other- 
wise. It  was  a  fine,  tall,  old  two-quart  pewter  mug 
with  cover.  It  had  done  duty  in  times  Vhen  men 
sat  together  while  the  pewter,  filled  with  foaming 
beer,  went  around  from  hand  to  hand  and  lip  to 
lip.  It  was  in  perfect  order,  but  there  was  nothing 
about  it  which  seemed  in  keeping  with  the  old 
farm-house.  When,  four  miles  on,  I  stopped  to 
feed  my  horses,  the  landlord,  looking  in  my  car- 
riage, exclaimed,  "  Hello,  did  you  buy  Jake's  pewter 


lO        ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

pitcher  ?"  and  then  said  Jake  had  bought  it  at  an- 
other sale  years  ago,  on  speculation,  and  had  car- 
ried it  afterwards  to  every  "  vandue,"  trying  to  find 
a  purchaser. 

In  the  autumn  of  that  year  I  drove  again  through 
the  same  country,  sometimes  on  the  same,  mostly 
on  other  roads.  The  aspect  of  the  hills  and  val- 
leys was  now  very  different.  October  is  a  golden 
month  for  carriage  travel,  on  some  accounts  more 
pleasant  than  any  other  month  in  the  year,  both 
for  horses  and  travellers. 

The  road  passed  through  a  forest,  unbroken  for 
half  a  mile.  On  the  right  a  stream  wandered  over 
rocks,  and  under  little  bluffs  of  moss,  bright  green 
miniature  copies  of  mountain  bluffs  along  the 
courses  of  mighty  rivers.  Now  and  then,  where 
the  stream  fell  into  a  pool,  the  lower  end  of  the 
pool  was  dammed  with  autumn  leaves,  yellow  and 
red  and  brown,  and  in  the  whirl  of  the  pool  you 
could  see  the  same  colored  leaves  going  around 
and  around,  and  the  water  looked  as  if  it  were 
clearer  and  colder  for  their  presence.  The  road 
was  covered  over  with  leaves,  a  yellow  carpet,  and 
every  few  minutes  the  light  breeze  would  freshen 
up  a  little  and  shake  the  higher  branches  of  the 
trees,  and  send  down  a  shower  of  leaves,  which 
flitted  and  darted  to  and  fro,  flashing  in  the  sun- 
shine, and  falling  on  our  laps  and  all  around  us. 

At  length  the  road,  which  going  up  a  gentle  as- 


ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS         11 

cent  left  the  brook  away  in  the  woods,  emerged 
into  open  country,  and  we  found  ourselves  on  the 
top  of  a  hill.  Before  us  spread  one  of  those  beau- 
tiful landscapes  in  which  New  England  is  richer 
than  any  other  part  of  the  world  that  I  know  of. 
The  road  descended  into  an  oval  basin,  some  three 
miles  long  and  a  mile  broad,  the  bottom  and  sides 
of  which  were,  or  had  been,  cultivated  farm  lands, 
except  where  a  small  lake  slept  motionless.  It  was 
surrounded  by  low  hills,  up  the  sides  of  which  the 
fields  extended,  here  and  there  one  of  them  glow- 
ing with  the  buff  and  gold  of  corn  stubble  and 
scattered  pumpkins.  Along  the  ridges,  where  the 
fields  did  not  go  over  them,  were  groves  of  maple 
and  birch  whose  autumn  colors  were  intensely 
bright,  while  down  the  slopes  lay  many  abandoned 
fields  gone  to  brush,  mauve,  maroon,  crimson,  and 
purple-colored  with  their  dense  growth  of  bushes, 
scarlet-lined  along  the  fences  by  rows  of  sumac. 

If  you  can  show  me  anywhere  in  the  world  land- 
scapes which  are  as  rich  and  varied  in  color  as  our 
northern  landscapes  in  America,  or  which  are  more 
beautiful  in  the  form  and  contrast  of  valley  and 
hill,  I  will  go  far  with  you  to  see  them.  Autumnal 
foliage  with  many  is  thought  to  be  the  changed 
color  of  the  forest  leaves,  and  few  have  observed 
the  wonderful  painting  of  landscapes  in  the  autum- 
nal colors  of  the  low  bushes.  Many  of  our  New 
England  rivers   in  October  flow  between   banks 


12        ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

and  around  low  gravel  islands  which  are  un- 
broken masses  of  crimson  from  a  plant  not  a 
foot  high,  covering  every  inch  for  acres.  And 
the  shades  are  even  more  beautiful  than  the  in- 
tense colors,  soft,  rich,  and  delicate  as  old  em- 
broideries. 

There  was  no  village  in  the  valley.  As  I  drove 
along  the  road  which  led  nearly  through  the  mid- 
dle of  it  I  came,  at  a  cross-road,  to  a  graveyard 
and  an  old  church.  That  it  was  once  a  church  the 
remains  of  a.  tower  or  spire  indicated,  and  its  lo- 
cation, a  hundred  feet  from  both  roads,  in  the 
graveyard,  demonstrated.  There  had  never  been 
any  fence  around  the  lot  except  the  rough -laid 
loose  stone-wall  which  serves  for  fence  in  all  parts 
of  our  country  where  stone  is  plenty.  And  no 
better  or  more  picturesque  fencing  can  be,  espe- 
cially if  people  will  plant  along  such  walls  any  of 
the  many  beautiful  vines  which  abound  everywhere, 
and  thrive  luxuriantly  in  just  such  places.  But  no 
vines  had  ever  been  planted  here.  Not  a  solitary 
bush  or  tree  grew  in  the  graveyard.  Even  grass 
seemed  to  have  run  out  from  lonesomeness  and 
neglect,  so  that  the  ground  looked  like  an  old 
worn-out  pasture  lot,  the  only  break  in  the  desolate 
aspect  being  a  stunted  sprig  of  golden-rod  which 
gleamed  in  front  of  the  church  door, 

I  passed  it,  careful  not  to  tread  on  it,  and  tried 
the  door,  found  it  open,  and  went  in.     The  interior 


ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS         13 

was  a  sad  ruin,  through  which  the  breeze  was  free 

to  blow,  for  there  was  no  glass  in  any  window,  nor, 
indeed,  now  any  need  of  glass,  since  it  was  plain 
enough  that  there  had  not  been  for  long  time  any 
assembling  of  people  here  to  worship.  The  pul- 
pit, nearly  round  and  high  up,  backed  by  a  large 
window,  had  once  been  reached  by  a  winding  stair- 
way, now  broken  down.  The  pews,  which  were 
built  of  pine,  without  paint,  were  in  fair  preserva- 
tion. The  plaster  on  the  walls  and  flat  ceiling  had 
mostly  fallen  off,  and  lay  in  the  pews  and  on  the 
floor  of  the  aisles.  I  could  see  the  blue  sky 
through  one  great  rift  overhead  where  the  roof 
timber  had  fallen  in  and  crushed  down  the  ceil- 
ing. 

No  places  are  filled  with  such  profound  interest 
to  thoughtful  men  as  those  spots  in  which  their 
fellow-men  of  former  generations  were  accustomed 
to  assemble  for  the  worship  of  God.  And  places 
of  Christian  worship  are  more  deeply  interesting 
because  of  the  characteristics  of  that  worship 
which  distinguish  it  from  all  others.  In  no  other 
have  men  approached  Deity  with  the  sense  of  per- 
sonal unworthiness  which  only  their  God  can  re- 
move, and  with  faith  in  His  fatherhood  and  broth- 
erhood, His  personal  presence  among  them,  and 
His  love  for  them.  From  the  early  ages  of  the 
Christian  Church  this  immediate  and  close  rela- 
tionship between  God  and  man  has  been  a  distin- 


14         ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

guishing  characteristic  of  old  Christian  art,  whose 
earliest  representations  of  His  personality  are  as 
the  Good  Shepherd,  carrying  home  a  lost  and 
found  lamb  of  His  flock.  If  that  faith  which  di- 
rects their  prayers  be  indeed  the  substance  of  the 
things  hoped  for,  then  the  place  where  men  meet 
their  God  is  so  truly  the  House  of  God  that  one  is 
at  a  loss  to  understand  those  who  deny  any  special 
sanctity  in  it.  But  however  irreverent  be  their  re- 
gard for  the  church  which  they  themselves  fre- 
quent, I  think  there  are  very  few  who  can  without 
some  serious  emotion  enter  an  old  church  in  which 
generations  of  men  and  women  and  children  have 
worshipped,  who  are  now  lying  in  silent  graves 
around  it. 

I  don't  think  you,  my  friend,  whatever  your  creed 
or  your  sympathies,  could  have  sat  with  me  in  one 
of  thoee  plain  pine  pews,  seeing  the  sunshine  of 
that  autumn  falling  through  the  shattered  building 
on  the  ruined  interior,  and  have  failed  to  appreci- 
ate something  of  the  sanctity  of  the  old  place  of 
prayer.  It  was  nearly  noon.  Through  the  broken 
roof  one  broad  stream  of  golden  light  fell  on  the 
open  place  between  the  front  pew  and  the  pulpit. 
There  the  table  used  to  stand  which  they  called 
their  Lord's  table,  and  from  which  they  received, 
as  their  catechism  expressed  it,  "by  faith,"  that  is, 
by  the  highest  assurance  men  can  have,  unhesitat- 
ing belief,  the  body  and  blood  of  Him  they  wor- 


ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS        1 5 

shipped.  There,  one  by  one,  when  the  work  and 
worry,  the  sorrow  and  sin  of  this  life  were  ended, 
they  were  laid  with  closed  eyes  and  calm  faces, 
and  thence  carried  out  to  the  gathering  place  of 
the  dead.  Where  are  they  now,  strong  men  and 
matrons,  young  men  and  maidens,  little  children 
and  patriarchs  ?  As  I  asked  myself  the  question 
I  walked  across  the  floor  to  a  window  and  looked 
out.  Yes,  they  were  all  lying  there,  as  so  many 
millions  of  the  Christian  dead  all  over  the  world 
lie,  in  circles  that  sweep  over  the  surface  of  the 
globe,  ever- widening  circles  as  their  faith  has  ex- 
tended among  men,  all  with  their  faces  heavenward 
and  their  feet  towards  Jerusalem. 

We  spent  more  than  a  half-hour  in  the  old  church. 
I  climbed  by  the  wrecked  stairway  into  the  pulpit. 
Its  interior  casing  was  falling  to  pieces,  and  in  a 
recess  within  were  some  scraps  of  paper,  which  had 
slipped  between  the  boards  from  the  shelf  under 
the  desk.  On  one  was  a  memorandum  of  the  min- 
ister for  notices  to  be  given  of  the  weekly  prayer 

meeting  at  Mr. 's  house,  and  a  Thursday  night 

lecture  at  the  school-house  on  the  mountain.  On 
another  was  a  funeral  notice.  There  was  nothing 
else  legible,  except  a  torn  scrap,  the  lower  part  of  a 
leaf  of  a  hymn-book,  and  on  this  was  a  stanza  not 
unfitting  the  associations  of  the  place.  So  for  the 
moment  I  assumed  the  position  of  the  erstwhile 
minister  and  said,  from  the  pulpit,  "  Let  us  sing :" 


1 6        ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

"  Oh  what  amazing  joys  they  feel 
While  to  their  golden  harps  they  sing, 
And  sit  on  every  heavenly  hill 
And  spread  the  triumphs  of  their  King !" 

There  were  only  three  of  us,  but  one  was  leader 
of  a  choir  in  an  up-country  church ;  and  we  sang  a 
good  old  tune,  which,  perhaps,  they  who  were  now 
silent  around  the  church  used  to  sing  to  the  same 
words — and  perhaps  will  some  day  sing  again. 

And  while  we  were  singing  I  saw  a  vision ;  not 
supernatural,  but  as  lovely  for  the  moment  as  any 
imagination.  In  the  open  doorway  at  the  other 
end  of  the  church  was  standing  a  little  child,  a  girl 
of  five  years  old,  dressed  in  white,  with  masses  of 
red-gold  hair  which  the  wind,  coming  in  from  be- 
hind her,  was  waving  and  shaking.  Her  great  blue 
eyes  were  looking  with  wonderment  while  she  lis- 
tened. As  the  sound  Ceased  she  vanished.  We 
might  have  thought  it  an  apparition,  but  that,  going 
to  the  door,  we  saw  her  running  down  the  road  as 
fast  as  her  little  feet  would  carry  her,  towards  a 
large  farm-house,  nearly  a  half-mile  off.  Her  story 
told  at  the  house  might  have  been  the  foundation 
of  a  mid-day  ghost  story  for  the  neighborhood,  the 
coming  back  of  old-time  people  to  sing  an  old  hymn 
in  the  ruined  church.  But  they  could  hardly  sup- 
pose that  ghosts  would  come  in  a  travelling  car- 
riage drawn  by  a  very  solid  pair  of  gray  horses. 


n 

IN   SOUTHERN  VERMONT 

It  matters  little  which  way  you  drive  in  Vermont 
to  seek  beautiful  scenery.  Every  road  furnishes  it. 
The  question  each  morning,  which  way  we  shall  go, 
is  not  a  very  serious  one.  Ordinarily  we  ask  about 
the  roads  in  all  directions,  but  not  for  the  sake  of 
getting  information.  That  is  hopeless.  Few  now 
have  knowledge  of  a  road  to  any  place  except  the 
nearest  railway  station.  At  the  station  no  one 
knows  a  road  more  than  two  or  three  miles  away. 
This  is  not  exaggeration.  It  is  simply  the  result 
of  the  abandonment  of  carriage  travel  and  the  uni- 
versal use  of  the  rail.  Intercommunication  between 
outlying  farms  and  villages  is  nearly  at  an  end. 
The  old  social  intercourse  and  mutual  dependence 
of  the  country  folk  is  mostly  gone.  The  fathers 
and  mothers  knew  every  family  within  a  circuit  of 
ten  or  twenty  miles.  There  are  not  so  many  fami- 
lies in  the  circuit  now,  but  many  have  ceased,  in 
this  generation,  to  be  even  acquaintances  one  with 
another. 

Night  after  night,  sitting  by  the  fire  in  the  tavern 


1 8        ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

public-room,  with  ten  or  fifteen  of  the  neighbors 
gathered  for  the  evening  talk,  we  have  inquired 
about  adjoining  towns  and  roads  thither,  whether 
there  are  inns,  whether  the  roads  cross  mountains, 
whether  there  are  streams,  ponds,  lakes,  which  way 
and  whither  the  watercourses  run,  but  all  in  vain. 
And  at  the  same  time  these  men  discuss  with  ample 
intelligence  the  Irish  land  question,  the  position  of 
the  French  in  Africa,  the  last  news  from  Ethiopian 
explorers,  and  the  politics  of  the  United  States. 
We  seldom  hear  home  politics  talked  about. 

From  all  this  you  may  infer  that  a  ride  through 
Vermont  and  New  Hampshire  is  a  journey  of  dis- 
covery. We  go  by  inquiring  almost  from  mile  to 
mile.  A  good  map,  already  marked  over  and  over 
with  the  lines  of  our  old  routes,  lies  on  the  carriage 
seat.  We  start  like  a  ship  and  lay  our  course  by 
compass,  or  rather  by  the  sun,  for  some  place  which 
on  the  scale  seems  to  be  at  a  reasonable  distance, 
and  ask  from  time  to  time  whether  we  are  on  the 
right  road.  Occasionally  we  go  wrong.  It  is  of 
no  account.     We  keep  on,  and  arrive  somewhere. 

In  the  spring  a  trout  rod  lies  ready  for  use  in 
the  carriage.  In  the  autumn,  a  heavier  rod  and  a 
gun.  Here  and  there  along  the  road  are  tempting 
spots  for  the  angler,  and  I  stop  the  horses  awhile. 
In  the  forest  roads,  covered  with  fallen  leaves  and 
nuts  in  autumn,  partridges  are  often  to  be  seen, 
sometimes  to  be  shot.     Always  the  scenery  is  at- 


IN   SOUTHERN   VERMONT  1 9 

tractive.  Comparisons  of  scenery  are  usually  ab- 
surd. No  two  landscapes  possess  all  of  thie  same 
characteristics.  One  lake  is  unlike  another,  and  it 
is  impossible  to  compare  one  with  another,  except 
when  the  characteristics  are  so  diverse  that  it  may 
be  fairly  said  of  one  or  the  other  that  it  possesses 
little  or  no  beauty.  Mountains  have  their  peculi- 
arities, and  one  can  seldom  be  intelligently  placed 
in  comparison  with  another  as  to  the  general  quality 
of  its  scenery.  One  is  bolder,  grander,  another  is 
richer  in  lofty  masses  of  color,  and  another  has 
wonderful  outlines  of  form  against  the  sky.  But, 
with  some  experience,  I  know  no  country  which,  as 
you  drive  through  it,  presents  more  variety  of 
beauty,  more  rapid  changes  in  the  character  of  the 
beauty,  more  alternations  of  grandeur  and  pastoral 
calmness,  more  wild  ravines,  and  more  far -distant 
views,  than  Northern  New  England. 

Proposing  a  wandering  drive  along  the  Green 
Mountains,  I  sent  my  horses  to  Brattleboro'  as  a 
starting-point.  While  waiting  there  for  a  friend  I 
drove  in  various  directions  around  the  town.  One 
could  pass  a  month  in  Brattleboro'  and  drive  every 
day  a  new  road,  and  a  good  road,  every  rod  of 
which  is  beautiful,  whether  in  Vermont  or  across 
the  river  in  New  Hampshire.  Streams  pour  down 
a  dozen  valleys  between  high  hills,  some  cultivated 
to  the  summits,  some  forest-covered.  Wild-flowers 
were  out  that  spring  in  an  abundance  that  seemed 


20        ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

to  surpass  all  former  springs.  The  forests  along 
the  road- sides  were  luxuriant  with  thousands  of 
flowers  of  a  hundred  varieties.  The  lateness  of 
the  spring  had  kept  back  the  usual  growth  of  early 
May,  and  the  sudden  coming  of  a  succession  of 
warm  days  had  brought  out  the  later  and  the  earlier 
flora  together.  A  mile  out  of  the  village  there  was 
a  spot  which  was  superb.  Masses  of  violets  grew 
as  thick  as  pansies  in  garden  beds,  the  large  tall 
white  and  pale  pink  in  clumps  with  the  equally  tall 
and  large  yellow,  the  small  white  and  small  yellow, 
and  two  varieties  of  blue,  all  intermingling  and 
covering  the  ground  at  the  edge  of  the  forest, 
formed  a  continuous  bed  of  color  stretching  a  hun- 
dred rods  with  scarcely  a  break.  Trilium,  purple 
and  painted,  nodded  over  this  bed  in  the  deeper 
shadow  of  the  woods  now  just  leafing  out.  Anem- 
one, tiarella,  mitre- wort,  were  abundant. 

Coming  recently  from  watching  the  advance  of 
spring  in  the  South,  the  contrast  was  vast  and  strik- 
ing. The  luxuriant  green  over  the  whole  surface 
of  the  country,  ground  and  tree  alike  bursting  out 
in  splendid  color,  had  not  been  a  feature  of  spring 
in  Florida  and  South  Georgia.  Last  year's  vege- 
tation does  not  stand  up  here,  dry  and  yellow,  to 
be  slowly  hidden  by  the  growth  of  this  year,  as  in 
southern  countries.  Snow  is  a  wonderful  beauti- 
fier.  It  packs  down  the  dead  growth  of  the  past,  so 
that  the  first  show  of  the  new  growth  is  visible  and 


IN    SOUTHERN    VERMONT  21 

colors  the  earth  and  the  landscape.  There  is  a 
day  when  all  the  country  looks  wintry;  the  next 
day  soft  green  tints  show  in  the  damp  hollows  or 
on  the  southern  slopes;  then  in  one  or  two  or  three 
days  the  whole  landscape  has  become  brilliantly 
green.  The  forests  have  begun  to  color.  We  all 
know  the  gorgeous  autumnal  colors,  but  little  has 
been  written  of  the  exquisite  tints  of  the  spring 
forests  in  New  England.  They  are  often  quite  as 
beautiful  as  the  autumn  glories.  They  are  softer 
tints,  but  more  varied — pink,  mauve,  purple,  and 
gray,  in  broad  and  gentle  gradations,  broken  now 
and  then  by  deep  tints  where  the  maple  is  budding. 
Sometimes  in  valleys,  where  willows  are  plenty  and 
when  sunlight  falls  richly  after  a  shower,  there  are 
patches  of  golden  yellow  stretching  across  green 
fields  which  are  as  beautiful  as  one's  golden  dreams. 
Did  you  ever  meet  with  one  of  those  modern  aesthet- 
ic maniacs  who  suggest  improvements  for  Nature 
and  criticise  her  minglings  of  color  ?  One  such 
condemns,  as  "in  bad  taste,"  the  mingling  of  green 
with  yellow  in  a  field  where  thousands  of  yellow  but- 
tercups bloom.  He  suggests,  as  much  more  cor- 
rect and  pleasant  to  the  eye,  the  contrast  afforded 
by  a  midsummer  field  where  the  white  daisies  are 
abundant.  There  is  no  disputing  about  tastes. 
Nature  offers  something  for  every  one  ;  but  that  is 
a  faulty  education  which  has  brought  any  one  to 
applv  to  the  works  of  the  great  Artist  the  arbitrary 


22         ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

notions  of  what  we  call  art  criticism.  Nature  en- 
courages no  ideas  of  harmony  in  color.  She  min- 
gles with  a  free  hand  all  colors,  and  puts  to  shame 
the  temporary  and  changing  tastes  of  humanity, 
which  trammel  and  harness  artists  and  drive  them 
on  railway  tracks  of  art  production.  Old  nations 
of  men  are  free  from  the  foolish  rules  of  so-called 
civilization  in  this  matter  of  color.  The  gorgeous 
products  and  minglings  of  color  which  characterize 
the  Chinese  porcelains  are  doing  a  great  deal  to 
educate  the  dim  and  doubtful  tastes  of  western  Eu- 
rope and  America.  The  Saracens  understood  bet- 
ter than  any  race  of  men  in  any  age  the  value  of 
free  and  unrestrained  use  of  color,  and  contrasted 
colors  without  regard  to  any  ideas  of  what  is  called 
harmony.  They  decorated  houses  and  temples  as 
Nature  decorates  the  earth,  and  kept  prominent  al- 
ways the  great  lesson  of  the  visible  world,  that  with 
a  blue  sky  and  a  green  landscape  every  one  of  the 
infinite  variety  of  hues  of  flowers  is  perfectly  har- 
monious. 

Taking  Brattleboro'  as  a  starting-point,  we  could 
cross  the  Connecticut  into  New  Hampshire  or  strike 
out  westward  into  Vermont.  Choosing  the  latter 
course,  we  could  continue  the  route  northward  on 
the  eastern  side  of  the  Green  Mountains,  wander- 
ing hither  and  thither  on  the  way,  or  take  one  of 
the  roads  westward  and  cross  the  mountains.  What 
matters  it  which  road  you  take  ?     It  is  always  easy 


THE    (  IUKCH-BKI-L     ANNOUN'CES        EV1'NIN(; 
MEKTINCi" 


IN   SOUTHERN   VERMONT  2$ 

to  turn  your  own  carriage,  change  your  direction, 
follow  the  new  wish  of  the  moment.  We  could  go 
out  to  Wilmington,  and  over  the  Green  Mountains 
to  Bennington ;  we  could  turn  northward  from  Wil- 
mington and  ascend  and  descend  the  hills  of  Dover, 
now  getting  far-off  views  over  New  Hampshire,  now 
seeing  to  the  west  the  Vermont  mountains  over- 
hanging lovely  valleys.  The  country  directly  west 
of  Brattleboro',  although  hilly,  abounds  in  fine  sce- 
nery, and  the  valley  at  Wilmington  is  as  lovely  as 
any  Swiss  valley.  We  chose  a  route  to  the  north- 
west. We  drove  out  on  the  right  bank  of  West 
River,  following  up  the  stream,  with  intent  to  spend 
the  night  at  Fayetteville,  but  loitered  along  the  way, 
and  after  sunset  pulled  up  at  a  little  inn  in  Will- 
iamsville. 

There  is  seldom  any  trouble  in  finding  employ- 
ment for  the  evening  at  a  country  inn  or  in  the  vil- 
lage. Sometimes  the  church-bell  announces  "  even- 
ing meeting,"  and  one  may  do  worse  than  to  attend 
it,  if  only  for  the  sake  of  seeing  people  and  study- 
ing character.  Almost  always  the  inn  is  the  place 
of  gathering  for  some  of  the  natives,  who  discuss 
all  kinds  of  subjects  with  abundant  intelligence, 
and  generally  with  striking  clearness  and  simplicity 
of  thought  and  diction. 

It  is  not  difficult  for  a  stranger  to  lead  the  con- 
versation towards  local  incident  and  history.  There 
is  no  country  village  in  the  land  which  cannot  fur- 


24        ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

nish  personal  histories  of  sufficient  interest  to  make 
volumes  of  very  instructive  biography.  You  err 
if  you  imagine  that  only  those  lives  are  romantic 
which  are  passed  among  crowds  in  cities.  The 
country  life  abounds  in  mysteries,  romances.  The 
clergyman  or  the  doctor  either  could  furnish  the 
novelist  with  a  great  deal  of  material. 

If  you  don't  care  to  talk,  you  can  always  find  on 
the  table  of  the  parlor,  or  on  a  shelf  somewhere,  a 
small  stock  of  books;  and  if  you  are  a  reading 
man  from  a  city  you  will  be  very  sure  to  find  these 
books  mostly  new  to  you — books  you  never  saw  or 
heard  of.  There  are  very  few  book-stores  in  New 
England  outside  the  large  cities.  The  New  York 
or  Boston  publishers  who  sell  books  through  retail 
stores  have  no  means  of  reaching  the  inhabitants 
of  Vermont  and  New  Hampshire,  except  in  two  or 
three  cities.  The  American  people  have  not  learned 
to  any  great  extent  to  order  books  by  mail.  In  the 
country  few  books  are  bought  except  such  as  are 
brought  to  the  door  by  agents.  For  this  trade  a 
great  many  books  are  made  of  which  no  one  in  the 
cities  ever  hears.  They  are  of  various  classes  of 
literature,  some  of  them  good,  instructive  compila- 
tions of  history,  travel,  scientific  information,  some 
only  trash,  catchpenny  books.  It  is  always  good- 
fortune  if  one  finds  that  the  local  history  of  the 
town  or  county  in  which  he  is  resting  has  been 
gathered  and  published.    Many  such  histories  have 


IN    SOUTHERN   VERMONT  ij^ 

been  made  in  the  north  country.  They  are  gen- 
erally subscription  -  books,  and  special  attention  is 
given  to  the  personal  and  family  histories  of  sub- 
scribers. Portraits  adorn  them.  Now  and  then  an- 
cestral portraits  are  reproduced  in  wood  or  litho- 
graphic prints.  They  are  always  readable  books, 
especially  readable  for  the  traveller. 

Williamsville  is  in  the  town  of  Newfane,  a  very 
old  Vermont  township.  An  excellent  history  of  this 
town  has  been  published  abounding  in  material  of 
much  more  than  local  interest. 

In  1789,  at  the  old  Field  mansion  on  the  2 2d  of 
February,  Major  Moses  Joy  was  married  to  Mrs. 
Hannah  Ward,  widow  of  William  Ward.  This 
William  Ward  had  died  insolvent,  leaving  debts  of 
considerable  amount.  At  the  second  marriage 
Mrs.  Ward  stood  in  a  closet  with  no  clothing  on, 
and  held  out  her  hand  to  Major  Joy  through  a  hole, 
and  the  ceremony  was  thus  performed. 

This  is  the  only  instance  I  have  ever  met  with  in 
American  history  of  what  in  England  has  been  vari- 
ously called  a  smock  marriage,  or  a  marriage  en 
chemise.  The  idea  was,  and  in  parts  of  England 
still  is  prevalent,  that  if  a  husband  takes  a  wife 
with  nothing  on  her  he  avoids  a  legal  liability  to 
pay  her  debts,  or  the  debts  of  a  former  husband, 
some  of  whose  property  she  might  possibly  bring 
with  her  to  her  new  alliance.  This  vulgar  error 
has  led  to  many  curious  marriages.     One  is  re- 


26         ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

corded  in  which  the  woman  left  her  room  in  the 
night,  naked,  by  the  window,  standing  on  the  top 
round  of  a  high  ladder,  where  she  put  on  new 
clothes,  and  came  down  feeling  satisfied  that  she 
had  left  all  old  obligations  in  the  house,  and  come 
out  scot-free.  I  think  I  remember  in  Notes  and 
Queries  an  account  of  the  surprise  of  a  clergyman 
in  an  English  church,  when  a  bride  appeared  for 
an  appointed  marriage,  wrapped  only  in  a  white 
sheet,  and  this  within  a  very  recent  period.  The 
old  error,  it  seems,  prevailed  in  Vermont  so  late  as 
1789,  and  Major  Joy  took  what  he  thought  the  safe 
way  of  avoiding  the  responsibilities  of  the  departed 
— and  now  not  lamented — Mr.  Ward. 

There  was  another  old  error  which  also  lingered 
in  Vermont,  according  to  the  Newfane  historian. 
Inasmuch  as  a  writ  was  directed  in  words  com 
manding  the  sheriff  to  take  the  body  of  the  debtor, 
a  common  notion  was  held  that  the  writ  ran  against 
that  body  living  or  dead.  At  a  funeral  in  Dum- 
merston,  the  adjoining  town  (no  date  is  given),  the 
officers  arrested  the  body  on  its  way  to  the  grave. 
The  procession  stopped,  the  bearers  gave  bail  for 
the  appearance  of  the  debtor,  buried  him,  and  paid 
the  debt.  In  1820,  one  Lee,  in  prison  on  a  bail 
bond,  died.  The  sheriff  would  not  deliver  his 
body  to  his  family,  fearing  it  would  amount  to  an 
escape,  and  himself  become  liable.  The  consent 
of  the  creditors  was  obtained,  and  the  sheriff,  thus 


IN   SOUTHERN   VERMONT  27 

relieved  from  his  apprehended  responsibility,  re- 
leased his  prisoner.  This  strange  error  was  not 
confined  to  Vermont.  Similar  instances  of  arrest- 
ing the  body  have  been  recorded  in  other  parts  of 
the  country. 

In  the  morning  we  changed  our  minds  and  turned 
south-westward.  The  drive  from  Williamsville  to 
Wilmington  is  one  to  be  remembered.  A  good 
road  with  a  slight  upward  grade  for  four  miles, 
then  up  a  hill,  through  a  small  village,  on  for  a 
mile;  cross  a  bridge,  up  a  steep  hill,  through  Rock 
River  village ;  still  uphill  through  forest,  the  air 
pure  and  life-giving ;  uphill,  uphill,  a  long  steady 
pull  to  a  church  on  a  hill  which  is  Dover  Centre, 
and  now  behind  us  to  the  eastward  there  is  no 
limit  to  our  vision  in  the  clear  atmosphere  which 
lies  over  New  Hampshire.  The  blue  horizon  line 
away  yonder  must  be  almost  where  the  sky  and 
ocean  meet.  As  we  go  on  higher,  the  view  seems 
to  stretch  yet  farther  into  distance,  east  and  north- 
east, and  north,  while  close  below  us  farms  and 
valleys,  hills  and  ravines  lie  as  on  a  map.  A  half- 
mile  beyond  the  church  we  cross  the  summit,  and 
the  western  view  of  the  Green  Mountains  bursts  on 
us.  And  now  we  descend  into  a  charming  valley, 
and  following  a  meadow  brook  which  grows  to 
be  a  river,  and  is  the  east  branch  of  the  Deerfield 
River,  we  reach  Wilmington  at  noon. 

It  is  a  pretty  village  in  a  pretty  valley.     Hence 


28        ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

it  is  twenty  miles  to  all  sorts  of  places — twenty  to 
Brattleboro,'  twenty  to  Bennington,  the  same  to 
Hoosac  Tunnel  and  to  Coleraine. 

It  may  serve  to  show  the  freedom  of  carriage  trav- 
el if  I  rapidly  indicate  the  ways  we  went  after  this 
from  day  to  day.  From  Wilmington  we  drove  on 
southward  and  westward  to  Readsboro'  City,  a  busy 
village  among  the  mountains,  at  the  junction  of  the 
east  and  west  branches  of  the  Deerfield  River. 
Thence  our  route  lay  up  the  West  Branch,  a  wild 
road  of  much  beauty,  to  Hartwellville ;  then  by  a 
winding  valley  road  to  Stamford,  and  down  to 
North  Adams  in  Massachusetts ;  through  the  un- 
rivalled scenery  in  which  Williamstown  is  situated ; 
down  the  Hoosac  valley,  and  around  a  shoulder 
of  the  mountain  to  Bennington  in  Vermont ;  thence 
up  the  western  side  of  the  Green  Mountains  to 
Manchester.  Northward  now  from  Manchester, 
we  drove  up  the  beautiful  valley  between  the  high 
mountains  on  the  east  and  Equinox  and  the  Dorset 
mountains  on  the  west,  to  Wallingford.  There  we 
turned  the  horses  eastward  again.  From  Man- 
chester we  might  have  taken  a  route  west  of  the 
Dorset  Mountain,  by  which  we  would  have  gone 
to  Lake  St.  Catharine,  a  very  lovely  lake,  whereon 
is  a  large  hotel  in  a  grove  of  pines.  Thence  the 
route  is  pleasant  and  generally  level,  with  good 
roads,  to  Rutland,  or  to  Castleton  and  on  north- 
ward.    I  have  often  driven  in  this  direction.     But 


IN   SOUTHERN    VERMONT  29 

now,  without  any  special  reason,  we  recrossed  the 
Green  Mountain  range. 

The  little  highland  village  called  Mechanicsville 
is  in  the  town  of  Mount  Holly,  which  includes  the 
Green  Mountain  country  east  of  Wallingford,  where 
the  hills  run  lower  than  to  the  northward  and  south- 
ward of  it.  The  Central  Vermont  Railway  line  finds 
its  way  from  Bellows  Falls  to  Rutland  across  these 
lower  hills  in  a  north-westerly  direction.  The  wagon 
road  from  Wallingford  wanders  in  various  beautiful 
ways.  The  pass  across  is  one  of  the  easiest  and 
most  practicable  between  the  Massachusetts  line 
and  the  gorge  of  the  Winooski  south  of  Mount 
Mansfield. 

The  carriage  traveller  may  do  well  to  make  a  note 
of  these  passes.  If  you  drive  northward  from  Troy 
or  elsewhere  on  the  west  side  of  the  mountains,  you 
can  cross  them  to  the  east  side  and  the  Connecticut 
valley  only  by  one  or  another  of  these  mountain 
roads. 

From  Bennington  you  can  go  over  to  Wilming- 
ton and  Brattleboro'  by  a  road  which  I  have  never 
happened  to  find  in  good  order.  From  Manchester 
you  can  cross  through  Peru  to  Chester  by  a  turn- 
pike road,  usually  in  fair  condition.  From  Walling- 
ford you  can  cross  by  the  road  I  was  now  driving, 
to  Ludlow.  From  Rutland  you  can  cross  by  a  road 
which  I  have  found  so  wretched  that  the  least  said 
about  it  the  better.    From  Brandon  or  Middlebiuy 


3©        ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

you  can  cross  by  good  roads,  that  one  which  goes 
through  Ripton  passing  the  Bread  Loaf  Inn,  and 
descending  eastward  to  the  hilly  country  south  of 
Montpelier.  North  of  this  you  can  go  through  the 
mountains  by  a  good  road,  with  no  serious  hills, 
along  the  bank  of  the  Winooski,  to  Waterbury  and 
Montpelier.  Still  north  of  this  you  can  drive  over 
the  rolling  country  around  the  north  end  of  the 
mountains  from  Burlington  to  Hyde  Park.  There 
are  other  roads  through  and  over  the  Green  Mount- 
ains, but  none  of  them  can  be  recommended  with 
certainty  from  year  to  year  as  practicable  for  pleas- 
ure carriages. 

The  morning  was  dark.  We  had  had  showers 
in  the  night,  and  the  clouds  still  lay  low  in  the 
valley  at  Wallingford.  But  a  breath  of  air  from 
the  westward,  slowly  increasing,  and  beginning  to 
move  first  the  mists  and  then  the  leaves  of  the  trees, 
gave  promise  of  a  clearing  off.  We  did  not  start 
till  late  in  the  forenoon,  and  then  the  horses  had 
four  miles  of  pretty  steady  uphill  work  before  them. 
A  clear  stream,  swollen  with  last  night's  rain,  roared 
down  by  the  side  of  the  road  as  we  slowly  ascended. 
There  are  doubtless  trout  in  that  stream,  for  along 
it  now  and  then  we  saw  boys  fishing.  None  of 
them  had  any  trout.  All  agreed  that  the  water 
was  too  high,  but  all  asserted  the  presence  of  trout. 
The  faith  of  an  angler  is  worthy  the  study  of  phi- 
losophers.    If  a  boy  knows  that  one  trout  has  been 


IN    SOUTHERN    VERMONT  3 1 

taken  in  a  stream,  he  will  fish  contentedly  all  day  for 
another ;  and  though  he  may  take  innumerable  chubs 
and  dace  and  minnows,  without  sight  of  the  trout  he 
seeks,  he  nevertheless  throws  in  his  bait  a  thousand 
times,  and  every  time  with  perfect  assurance  that 
the  next  fish  that  takes  it  will  have  spotted  skin 
and  golden  sheen  below.  So  with  all  of  us.  They 
who  know  nothing  about  angling  have  few  if  any 
parallels  in  life  to  this  faith,  which  is  the  underlying 
charm  of  going  a-fishing.  One  cannot  fish  for  long 
without  success  in  a  stream  or  lake  in  which  he 
does  not  believe  there  are  any  fish.  A  few  casts 
of  the  flies,  a  few  minutes  waiting  for  a  bite  at  bait 
in  this  or  that  hole,  and  he  abandons  the  place. 
But  if  he  has  seen  a  trout  rise  to  a  fly,  or  dash 
along  the  clear  brook,  it  is  enough.  Thereafter 
faith  takes  hold  of  him,  and  the  day  goes  on  joy- 
ously to  the  end,  even  through  he  takes  nothing. 
For  the  taking  of  fish  is  but  a  small  part  of  the 
enjoyment  of  going  a-fishing.  The  innumerable 
sounds  and  sights  of  nature,  the  luxury  of  open  air, 
the  clouds,  the  winds,  the  sunshine,  the  rain,  the 
cutting  off  of  thought  of  business,  worry,  care  (which 
is  cut  off  most  effectually  by  the  presence  of  the 
angler's  faith  in  his  rod  and  skill),  these  can  be 
appreciated  only  by  those  who  love  to  use  rod  and 
line. 

We  drove  through  East  Wallingford  and  then 
wandered  over  hills,  with  many  far  and  many  lovely 


32        ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

views  until,  on  a  hill-top,  we  entered  the  little  village 
of  Mechanicsville,  consisting  of  a  large  factory,  two 
churches,  and  a  group  of  white  houses  under  trees. 
The  factory  makes  children's  toys.  It  was  startling, 
away  up  on  the  top  of  the  Green  Mountains,  on  the 
outlet  of  a  small  lake,  to  find  a  village  supported  by 
an  employment  so  closely  related  to  the  home  life 
of  all  the  country.  The  forests  of  the  neighbor- 
hood grow  the  wood,  the  mountain  streams  drive 
the  saw-mills  which  rough-shape  it,  a  steam-engine 
whirls  the  turning  lathes  and  the  various  machines 
which  give  form  to  the  objects.  Here  is  another 
subject  of  thought  for  the  philosopher.  The  angling 
boys  were  the  morning  illustrations  of  faith.  The 
noon  resting-place  is  a  village  where  the  inhabitants 
live  by  play.  Nothing  but  play.  The  waters  of  a 
beautiful  lake  flow  out  over  the  factory  wheels,  work- 
ing for  play.  Play  clothes  and  feeds  these  families, 
enriches  the  manufacturers,  supports  perhaps  these 
two  churches  whose  spires  rise  side  by  side.  It  is 
a  bright,  cleanly,  thriving-looking  little  village ;  the 
houses  are  neatly  painted ;  the  gardens  are  brilliant 
with  flowers. 

The  frivolities  of  life  have  their  uses.  Children 
must  play,  ought  to  play;  and  grown  men  and 
women  owe  it  to  themselves  to  play  sometimes.  If 
you  find  any  one  who  doubts  the  usefulness  of  play, 
tell  him  that  it  has  its  utility  in  this  at  least,  that  it 
runs  a  prosperous  village  in  the  Green  Mountains, 


IN   SOUTHERN   VERMONT  33 

and  employs  a  happy  population  with  remunerative 
work. 

In  the  afternoon  our  road  led  down  the  eastern 
slopes  of  the  hills  to  the  valley  where  Black  River 
comes  out  from  the  succession  of  lakes  at  Plymouth 
and  Tyson.  We  drove  through  Ludlow,  and  spent 
the  night  at  Proctorsville.  Next  day  we  crossed 
the  Connecticut  into  New  Hampshire. 
3 


Ill 

A  VILLAGE  DISCUSSION 

I  HAD  pulled  up  at  the  door  of  a  village  store 
and  gone  in  to  make  a  purchase.  I  was  standing 
at  the  counter.  It  was  a  cold  day,  and  there  were 
a  half-dozen  men  sitting  around  the  stove.  All 
were  strangers  to  me,  for  the  village  was  out  of  my 
regular  course  of  driving.  I  would  have  gone  out 
immediately  after  making  my  little  purchase,  but 
that  a  remark  from  one  of  the  men  to  the  surround- 
ing group  interested  me.  It  was  made  by  a  man 
whose  face  was  bright  and  intelligent,  but  whose 
tone  and  style  of  talking  marked  him  at  once  as 
somewhat  dogmatic  and  given  to  laying  down  the 
law  among  his  neighbors.  I  found  afterwards  that 
he  was  a  young  medical  man,  who  had  been  but 
two  or  three  years  in  the  village,  studious  in  his 
profession  and  remarkably  successful,  but  fond  of 
collisions  with  the  Freewill  Baptist  minister,  whose 
church  was  the  only  one  in  the  neighborhood.  The 
Doctor  was  an  "  educated  man ;"  that  is,  he  was  a 
college  graduate,  and  a  man  of  some  reading.  The 
Minister  was  not  an  educated  man,  and  the  Doctor 


A   VILLAGE   DISCUSSION  35 

was  a  thorn  in  his  side.  Many  localities  in  the 
country  are  situated  much  as  this  was.  But,  on 
the  whole,  the  good -sense  of  the  average  man  is 
superior  to  illogical  reasoning,  however  specious, 
in  or  out  of  the  pulpit,  and  sound  orthodox  belief 
holds  its  own  against  unsound  reason  and  imagi- 
nary theology. 

They  were  talking  about  miracles,  and  the  young 
Doctor  said :  "  You  know  as  well  as  I  do,  Stephen, 
that  ever3rthing  in  this  world  moves  in  regular 
order.  The  laws  of  nature  are  what  we  all  have 
to  depend  on,  and  they  never  change.  It's  certain 
that  if  you  plant  potatoes  they  won't  come  up 
pumpkins.  Neither  you  nor  any  man  here  ever 
saw  a  miracle.  You  never  heard  of  one  in  your 
life  in  these  parts.  You  never  heard  of  pumpkin 
vines  growing  from  potatoes.  It  stands  to  reason 
and  common-sense  that  when  no  man  in  this  town 
ever  saw  anything  happen  that  wasn't  in  the  regu- 
lar course  of  natural  law,  anything  supernatural,  it 
isn't  likely  such  things  are  going  to  happen  here." 

I  looked  at  Stephen,  as  the  Doctor  called  him. 
He  was  an  elderly  man,  hard  -  featured  and  sun- 
burned. There  was  a  shrewd  twinkle  in  his  eye, 
but  he  looked  at  the  stove  and  not  at  the  Doctor, 
and  there  was  silence  for  a  moment  while  he  pon- 
dered. Then  he  spoke  in  a  mild,  inquiring  sort  of 
way,  which  contrasted  with  the  Doctor's  somewhat 
self-opinionated  tone. 


36        ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

"  I  don't  know  much  about  the  laws  of  natur', 
but  I  suppose  you  mean  something  like  this — that 
when  I  let  go  that  jack-knife  it  '11  fall  on  the  floor ;" 
and  he  stretched  out  a  long  arm  holding  an  open 
knife  by  the  blade  between  his  thumb  and  finger. 

"  Exactly,"  said  the  Doctor ;"  that's  the  law  of 
gravitation." 

"  And  it's  sure  to  fall,  and  I  can  bet  my  money 
on  it,  and  I  needn't  be  afraid  of  a  miracle  ?  Look 
here,  Doctor,  where  did  the  law  that  binds  it  to  fall 
come  from  ?     What  made  that  particular  law  ?" 

The  Doctor  was  honest ;  that  was  evident  from 
his  reply.  "The  learned  men  who  have  investi- 
gated the  laws  of  nature  have  not  found  the  origin 
of  the  laws.  They  will  in  time.  It's  only  in  recent 
years  that  science  has  made  its  great  discoveries 
in  the  laws  themselves.  Heat,  light,  color,  electric- 
ity, all  the  great  characteristics  of  the  changing 
world  and  of  matter  itself,  have  never  been  under- 
stood as  they  are  now." 

"  And  you  can't  tell  me  what  made  the  law  that 
binds  that  jack-knife  to  fall  down  ?" 

"  No,  I  can't.  It's  enough  to  know  as  certain 
that  it  will  fall.  Just  let  go,  and  you'll  see  the  cer- 
tainty." 

"  No  chance  of  anything  supernat'ral ;  any  mira- 
cle?" 

"  Miracle  be  hanged.     Let  go  the  blade." 

Stephen's  thumb  and  finger  separated  and  stood 


A   VILLAGE   DISCUSSION  37 

Stretched  out  wide  apart.  The  jack-knife  was  not 
on  the  floor.  It  was  hanging  to  the  wooden  ceiling 
overhead,  its  blade  buried  a  half-inch  in  the  soft 
pine.  For  about  ten  seconds  no  one  spoke. 
Stephen  was  looking  at  the  Doctor. 

"  Suthin'  supernat'ral  happened,  didn't  it  ?"  said 
Stephen. 

"  You  jerked  the  knife  up  yourself." 

"  Well,  that  warn't  nat'ral,  war  it  ?" 

The  Doctor  hesitated.  "  Now  see  here,  Doctor," 
said  the  old  man,  "just  tell  me  how  old  is  your  law 
that  the  jack-knife's  got  to  fall  down." 

"  Millions  of  years  old.  Just  as  old  as  there  has 
been  anything  to  fall." 

"And  how  old  was  the  law  that  said  that  jack- 
knife  must  go  up  there  and  stick  its  blade  in  that 
white-pine  ceiling.  Just  three  minutes  and  a  half 
old  by  the  clock.  Now  what  I  want  to  know  is 
where  did  your  law  that  it  must  go  down  come 
from.  You  say  you  don't  know.  Well,  it  stands 
to  sense,  then,  and  you  can't  deny  that  it  may  come 
from  some  one  that  makes  it  go  down  just  as  I 
made  it  go  up.  If  your  science  is  worth  a  sneeze 
it  oughtn't  to  deny  what  it  don't  know  nothing 
about.  And  if  that's  so,  it's  always  just  as  like  as 
not  whoever  made  the  thing  go  down  will  make  it 
go  up,  without  you  or  I  or  any  one  else  knowing 
what  made  it  go,  any  more  than  you  know  what 
made  me  jerk  that  knife  up  yonder.     You  tell  me 


38        ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

that  if  I  plant  potatoes  they  won't  come  up  squash- 
es, but  you  just  tell  me  what  plants  potatoes,  or 
what  makes  me  plant  'em,  anyhow.  If  I  don't  plant 
'em  there  ain't  going  to  be  any  potatoes  nor  squash- 
es. It's  according  to  reason  that  if  potatoes  come 
up  because  I  planted  potatoes,  squashes  don't  come 
up  from  them,  because  some  one  else  takes  care  of 
that  part  of  the  business.  I  don't  believe  in  your 
argiments  that  laws  always  may  be  depended  on, 
when  you  tell  me  yourself  that  you  don't  know 
where  the  laws  come  from  and  how  long  they're 
goin'  to  last.  Your  science  is  all  right,  Doctor, 
just  as  long  as  it  talks  about  what  it  knows  about. 
But  when  your  science  says  a  knife's  bound  to  fall 
down,  and  don't  take  into  account  that  something 
supernat'ral  may  interfere  that  science  don't  know 
nothing  about,  sich  as  my  sudden  making  up  my 
mind  to  jerk  it  up,  why  your  science  ain't  wuth  any 
more  than  a  last  year's  almanac  to  tell  a  fellow 
what  the  weather's  goin'  to  be." 

By  this  time  Stephen's  tone  and  style  had  changed. 
He  was  no  longer  humble  and  inquiring,  but  de- 
cidedly aggressive.  There  were  some  strong  words, 
not  exactly  profane,  adjectively  applied  to  science 
in  the  last  sentence,  which  I  have  omitted.  He 
talked  rapidly  and  vehemently  and  with  pointed 
logic.  Is  logic  one  of  the  distinguishing  character- 
istics of  humanity?  There  are  men,  exceptions, 
sometimes  men  of  eminence,  who  do  not  seem  to 


A   VILLAGE   DISCUSSION  39 

have  any  idea  of  logic,  but  by  the  vast  majority  of 
men,  however  uneducated,  logical  sequence  seems 
instinctively  appreciated,  and  the  most  illiterate  are 
very  sure  to  detect  failure  in  argument. 

As  he  talked  he  rose  and  stood  up,  six  feet  two 
— a  mighty  frame,  fit  for  tremendous  work — and  he 
poured  out  a  storm  of  plain  and  unanswerable  phil- 
osophic truth,  ending  up  in  this  wise :  "  No  mira- 
cles, but  only  jest  steady  laws  ?  Well,  accordin'  to 
law  that  jack-knife  will  stick  there  till  the  wood 
rots  or  the  steel  rusts.  Make  your  prophe-cy  if 
you  dare.  Say  what  it  '11  do.  Is  there  any  law 
that  '11  tell  you  what  '11  come  of  it?  or  whether 
Sam  or  Timmy  won't  have  it  down  and  pocket  it 
as  soon  as  I'm  gone  ?  You  don't  know.  Well,  I 
do.  There's  just  such  a  law,  and  I  made  it ;"  and 
so  saying  he  reached  up  his  long  arm,  seized  the 
knife,  and  strode  out  of  the  door,  growling  as  he 
went. 

"  He's  a  cantankerous  old  cuss,  but  he's  got  a 
lot  o'  brains,"  remarked  one  of  the  group.  The 
others  signified  assent.  The  Doctor  said  nothing, 
but  stood  looking  at  the  spot  in  the  ceiling  where 
the  knife  had  been.  I  followed  the  philosopher. 
As  I  drove  up  the  road  I  overtook  him  and  offered 
him  a  ride.  He  had  not  noticed  me  at  the  store. 
He  discussed  my  horses,  the  merits  of  various  styles 
of  buck-board,  the  weather,  the  crops,  and  it  was 
not  until  we  approached  a  farm  which  he  pointed 


40        ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

out  as  his  own  that  Any  allusion  was  made  to  the 
discussion.  There  was  a  field  golden  with  huge 
pumpkins,  which  I  think  form  the  richest  and  most 
gorgeous-looking  crop  that  is  ever  seen  in  the  fields. 
"You  didn't  plant  potatoes  for  that  crop,"  I  said. 
He  looked  puzzled,  then  broke  into  a  hearty  laugh. 
"You  see  the  Doctor  riled  me  a  little,  and  I  got 
mad.  I  tell  you  what  it  is.  Mister,  I  never  had  an 
edication,  and  the  Doctor  had ;  and  it  makes  me 
mad  when  a  man  like  him  talks  to  a  store  full  o' 
people  as  if  he  knew  all  he's  a-talking  about,  when 
he  don't.  He's  been  going  on  about  miracles  for 
the  last  three  weeks,  because  the  elder  preached  a 
sermon  on  'em.  I  don't  belong  to  the  meetin',  but 
my  old  mother  did.  Do  you  see  that  bunch  o' 
spruces  over  yonder  ?  She's  there.  She  believed 
in  miracles.  And  she  knew  a  heap  more  than  I 
do.  Now  I  just  ask  you  this :  which  is  best  wuth 
believin',  my  old  mother  when  she  told  me  the 
miracles  was  true  because  there's  a  God  over  the 
airth,  or  these  consarned  edicated  fools  that  go 
around  saying  there  never  could  a-been  no  miracles 
because  they  don't  know  how  to  work  'em." 


IV 
UPHILL  IN   FOG 

Maps  give  little  idea  of  the  elevations  or  depres- 
sions in  the  surface  of  a  country,  except  as  the  run 
of  the  watercourses  indicates  the  slopes.  The  high 
mountains  of  Northern  New  Hampshire  are  gen- 
erally laid  down  on  all  maps,  but  few  persons  have 
any  idea  that  in  the  lower  part  of  the  State  there 
is  very  high  land,  and  that  to  reach  it  from  the 
Connecticut  on  the  west,  or  the  Merrimac  on  the 
east,  an  ascent  of  more  than  looo,  perhaps  more 
than  1500  feet,  must  be  accomplished.  I  have  no 
means  at  present  of  ascertaining  the  elevation  of 
the  highest  farms  in  such  towns  as  Lempster,  Wash- 
ington, and  Stoddard.  Some  years  ago,  driving 
over  the  high  farm  country  in  Stoddard,  I  was  told 
that  this  was  the  highest  cultivated  land  in  the 
State.  This  may  be  doubtful,  but  it  is  very  high, 
and  these  towns  ought  to  be  above  the  hay-fever 
line.  Judging  from  the  experience  of  the  direct 
pull  up  from  Charlestown  to  Lempster,  we  should 
be  inclined  to  think  the  latter  village  several  thou- 
sand feet  above  the  Connecticut.  It  was  a  mag- 
nificent ride. 


42        ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

The  morning  was  foggy.  October  frequently  fills 
the  Connecticut  valley  with  fogs.  This  was  very 
dense  and  dark.  As  we  went  out  from  Charles- 
town  and  began  the  uphill  journey,  we  came  slow- 
ly into  thinner  mist,  and  after  awhile  into  that  most 
weird  and  solemn  of  all  lights,  the  golden  atmos- 
phere of  the  October  sun  in  fog  among  autumn 
forests.  Stopping  the  horses  on  a  water-bar  for  a 
little  breath,  we  listened  to  the  silence.  Do  you 
know  what  that  means  ?  It  is  not  listening  to  noth- 
ing. There  are  sounds  and  many  of  them ;  but  in 
the  stillness  of  a  foggy  morning  these  sounds  seem 
to  cut  sharply  into  the  silence,  and  thus  make  you 
aware  of  the  excessive  stillness  and  calm  which 
reign  around  you.  The  fall  of  a  single  leaf,  broken 
off  by  the  weight  of  moisture  on  it,  is  distinctly  au- 
dible as  it  flutters  to  the  ground.  The  voice  of  a 
crow,  far  away  in  the  fog,  comes  through  the  yellow 
air  with  a  metallic  ring.  You  start  along,  and  the 
crush  of  the  wheels  in  the  gravel  is  echoed  from 
the  side  of  the  woods  across  a  hollow,  so  that  you 
think  there  is  a  water-fall  over  there.  You  stop 
again,  and  the  echo  dies  away  with  a  low  murmur- 
ing along  the  trees,  and  the  stillness  is  wonderful. 

Uphill  and  downhill,  but  more  and  more  uphill, 
tlie  road  mounts  the  high  land.  Ahead  of  us  there 
are  long  views  between  the  maples  and  birches,  the 
view  ending  in  yellow  mist.  We  think  that  point 
must  be  the  top,  but  when  we  reach  it  the  road 


UPHILL   IN   FOG  43 

swings  around  the  side  of  the  hill  and  stretches  on 
up.  We  descend  at  length,  but  it  is  into  a  hollow, 
and  it  grows  dark  and  darker  in  the  fog  as  we  go 
down,  till  at  the  bottom,  where  a  stream  crosses 
the  road,  we  think  it  will  rain  in  five  minutes,  so 
deep  is  the  gloom ;  but  we  go  up  again  into  the 
sunny  mists,  and  at  length,  on  a  summit,  feel  for 
the  first  time  a  breath  of  air  coming  from  the  south- 
ward. When  the  air  begins  to  move  the  fog  will 
vanish.  Its  vanishing  now  is  almost  instantaneous. 
We  have  scarcely  time  to  exclaim,  "  See  that  hill- 
top over  yonder,  and  that  one  beyond,  and  this  one, 
and  " — far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  rolling  away  un- 
der the  rich  sunlight,  lie  the  red-and-gold  hills  and 
the  highland  farms  of  New  Hampshire.  Patches 
of  fog  remain  here  and  there  and  in  hollows  under 
the  sides  of  hills,  but  they  disappear  in  a  few  min- 
utes. The  view  is  so  sudden  and  so  vast  that  even 
my  horses  stop  short  and  look  at  it. 

But  Lempster  is  still  ahead  of  us,  and  we  have 
yet  higher  heights  to  overcome.  It  was  nearly 
twelve  o'clock  when  we  reached  this  little  village — 
only  four  or  five  houses,  with  a  new  church  and  an 
abandoned  old  church.  We  had  dinner,  and  then 
went  over  other  heights  to  Washington.  I  do  not 
know  which  stands  the  higher,  Lempster  or  Wash- 
ington. Both  are  attractive  places,  on  account  not 
only  of  their  elevation,  but  also  of  their  splendid 
surroundings  of  scenery. 


44        ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

Lovel  Mountain  is  prominent  near  Washington. 
A  farmer  told  me  the  legend  of  the  origin  of  the 
name.  I  heard  the  story  fifty  years  ago,  and  then 
believed  it,  as  children  believe,  with  ready  faith. 
We  grow  sceptical  as  we  grow  older.  But  the  farm- 
er told  it  as  a  historic  verity,  and  it  is  probably 
about  as  true  as  nine-tenths  of  what  we  call  history. 
He  believed  it,  and  I  don't  know  why  you  should 
not.  A  settler  near  this  mountain  in  early  times, 
named  Lovel,  was  splitting  rails,  when  six  Indians 
surrounded  him  and  made  him  their  prisoner.  My 
informant  was  sure  of  the  number — there  were  six. 
The  settler  agreed  to  go  quietly  with  them  if  they 
would  wait  till  he  finished  splitting  the  log  he  was 
at  work  on.  They  consented.  He  adjusted  his 
wedge  in  the  long  split,  and  induced  them  to  take 
hold  of  the  two  sides  to  hasten  matters  by  pulling 
the  log  apart.  Then  knocking  out  his  wedge,  he 
caught  their  twelve  hands  tight  and  fast  in  the 
spring  of  the  closing  split,  and  applied  his  axe,  se- 
riatim, to  the  six  heads.  The  result  was  six  dead 
Indians,  and  the  later  result  the  name  Lovel 
Mountain. 


SWEET-SCENTED  FERN 

There  can  be  no  reasonable  doubt  that  the  sense 
which  is  most  closely  linked  with  our  powers  of 
memory  is  the  sense  of  smell.  We  are  greatly 
puzzled  sometimes  to  know  what  has  suddenly 
brought  to  mind  an  event  of  long  ago,  a  person 
whom  we  have  not  thought  of  for  years,  a  scene 
that  has  been  forgotten  since  childhood.  Very 
often  this  sudden  memory  has  been  roused  by  a 
passing  odor,  the  never-lost  perfume  of  a  flower,  a 
handkerchief,  a  meadow.  So  subtle  are  the  opera- 
tions of  the  mind  that  we  know  little  about  them, 
and  least  of  all  about  that  stow-away  place  which 
we  call  memory.  Neither  you  nor  I  know  a  hun- 
dred thousandth  part  of  what  we  really  do  know, 
what  we  have  learned,  treasured,  and  now  keep 
stored  up ;  only  it  is  like  some  things  we  have  so 
carefully  laid  away  that  we  can't  find  them  when 
we  want  them,  or  have  ceased  to  know  that  we 
possess  them. 

There  was  once  a  boy.  It  was  a  great  while  ago  ; 
that  is,  it  seemed  to  him  a  long  while  to  come, 


46        ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

when  he,  a  boy,  looked  forward  to  the  old  age  he 
afterwards  reached.  But  when  he  was  an  old  man 
it  did  not  seem  such  a  great  while  ago  that  he  was 
a  boy,  living  in  a  small  house,  half  log  half  clap- 
board, on  the  edge  of  a  clearing  in  New  Hampshire. 
This  boy  lived  there  very  much  alone ;  for  though 
he  had  a  father  and  a  mother,  it  goes  without  say- 
ing that  a  small  boy  on  a  new  farm  leads  a  lone- 
some life  when  father  and  mother  are  at  work  all 
the  waking  hours.  When  he  was  ten  years  old  he 
was  a  hard-working  boy  too.  He  had  never  been 
to  school,  never  even  learned  to  read.  There  was 
not  a  book,  not  so  much  as  a  Testament,  in  the 
house ;  and  so  far  as  he  had  ever  heard,  there  were 
no  books  in  the  world,  nor  any  God  in  it  or  over  it. 
I  wonder  if  you  know,  what  is  the  solemn  fact,  that 
there  are  families,  American  families,  with  one,  two, 
and  many  children,  in  New  England  States,  of  ex- 
actly this  description. 

Another  family  came  into  that  part  of  the  coun- 
try, and  another  small  house  went  up  on  the  oppo- 
site bank  of  the  lake ;  for  the  houses  stood  on  a 
pond,  or  lake,  which  was  a  half-mile  broad  and  two 
or  three  miles  long,  and  the  old  forest  was  all 
around  it  except  for  the  two  clearings.  Now  came 
into  that  boy's  life  a  new  light,  and  he  began  to 
know  the  world ;  for  there  was  a  daughter  in  the 
other  family,  besides  two  sons ;  and  what  cannot  a 
boy  learn  of  the  world  from  two  other  boys  and 


SWEET-SCENTED    FERN  47 

one  happy  little  girl.  He  learned  more  from  her 
than  from  them.  For  somehow  he  learned  from 
her  to  look  into  himself,  and  think  about  himself 
and  what  he  was.  That  is  a  long  step  towards 
knowledge  of  the  world  when  a  boy  gets  into  the 
way  of  studying  himself  thoughtfully.  For  almost 
all  the  joys,  ambitions,  and  enjoyments  ;  almost  all 
the  sins,  labors,  and  sorrows  of  mature  life  are  min- 
iatured in  the  boy  life.  The  little  pleasures  of  the 
child  are  like  in  character  to  the  great  pleasures 
of  the  man.  The  triumph  of  a  successful  attack 
on  a  woodchuck's  hole  is  the  far-away  antetype  of 
a  great  operation  in  stocks  or  the  brilliant  capture 
of  a  large  corporation. 

Many  a  summer  evening  when  his  work  was 
done  he  paddled  his  dug-out  across  the  pond,  and 
he  and  she  drifted  along  the  shore,  and  he  sat  si- 
lent while  she  told  him  stories  of  the  town  in  which 
she  had  lived,  and  the  people  in  that  (to  her)  great 
assemblage  of  humanity.  Many  a  Sunday  they 
wandered  together  in  the  woods  and  out  in  the 
clearing  along  the  bank  of  the  lake,  brushing 
through  thick  masses  of  fern  that  filled  the  sunny 
atmosphere  with  delicious  odor. 

After  the  first  few  months  of  their  acquaintance, 
when  he  was  twelve  and  she  was  ten  years  old,  he 
had  begun  to  regard  her  as  the  dependence  of  his 
life,  and  so  to  look  to  her  for  help.  It  was  hard 
work  to  bring  himself  to  confess  to  her  that  he  did 


^8        ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

not  know  how  to  read ;  but  he  did  it,  and  asked 
her  to  teach  him.  There  was  a  rock  among  the 
sweet-scented  fern  by  the  shore,  where  in  the  pleas- 
ant Sunday  mornings  she  gave  him  regularly  a  four- 
hours'  lesson.  She  was  not  long  in  teaching  him 
all  she  knew,  and  after  that  they  progressed  to- 
gether. 

They  talked  much  and  thought  much.  She  told 
him  Bible  stories,  and  they  were  about  the  only 
stories  she  knew  except  two  or  three  wonderful 
fairy  stories  which  he  and  she  mixed  up  with  the 
Bible  stories,  until  they  grew  wiser,  as  new  settlers 
came  and  brought  books,  which  they  borrowed. 
Much  they  learned  out  of  their  own  heads,^  reading 
together  and  giving  each  to  the  other,  in  childish 
wise  ways,  their  deductions  and  reasonings  about 
things  visible  and  invisible,  things  of  earth  and 
things  unearthly  if  not  truly  heavenly.  Do  you 
imagine  their  deductions  were  worthless  ?  Nay, 
the  ratiocinations  of  a  boy  and  a  girl  about  the  in- 
finite and  invisible  are  about  as  valuable  in  result 
as  are  those  of  many  of  the  philosophers  which  fill 
the  thousand  pages  of  modern  books.  They  learned 
as  much  of  final  truth  as  you  can  learn  from  all  the 
metaphysicians. 

It  needs  not  to  say  that  he  learned  the  old  les- 
son of  love  at  the  same  time,  or  even  before  he 
learned  his  letters  among  the  ferns.  So  began  his 
life.     At  seventeen  he  came   out  from  his  wild 


SWEET-SCENTED    FERN  49 

home  into  the  crowded  world.  There  is  no  space 
to  tell  of  his  method  of  farming  his  new  farm.  He 
went  at  it  with  the  experience  of  the  boy  who  had 
cleared  a  forest  and  rolled  rocks  out  of  the  meadow 
land.  It  was  a  terrible  piece  of  work,  begun  with 
semi-starvation,  carried  on  with  slow,  steady  deter- 
mination. Starting  as  a  day-laborer,  he  achieved 
in  six  years  or  so  a  superintendent's  position  with 
a  living  salary.  Then  he  went  back  to  the  old 
farm  and  married  Harriet,  who  had  waited  for  him, 
and  brought  her  to  the  city. 

Fifty  years  went  along,  and  neither  he  nor  she 
ever  again  saw  the  north  country.  He  accumulated 
property,  and  they  were  good  members  of  their  so- 
cial circle,  regular  in  daily  life  and  Sunday  church- 
going.  They  had  changed,  and  yet  had  not  changed. 
Their  young  lives  had  been  devoid  of  romance, 
and  there  was  no  romance  or  sentiment  in  growing 
rich  or  growing  old.  Practically  they  had  forgot- 
ten their  youth.  Certainly  they  never  thought  or 
talked  of  it.  I  said  their  youth  was  without  ro- 
mance. Yet  beyond  doubt  the  forming  period  in 
their  lives  had  been  when  the  unspeakable  beauty 
of  a  boy's  and  a  girl's  love  hallowed  those  sunshiny 
days.  They  did  not  know  that  there  was  any  ro- 
mance in  young  love  on  the  silver  lake  in  the 
mountain  moonlight.  They  did  not  know  there 
was  any  romance  when  he  lay  in  the  ferns  at  her 
feet  and  listened  while  she  taught  him  that  b-o-y 
4 


5©        ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

Spells  boy  and  g-i-r-1  spells  girl  and  1-o-v-e  spells 
love.  Therefore  there  was  no  romance  about  it. 
It  was  simple  matter  of  fact.  They  lived  matter- 
of-fact  lives  when  poor,  and  the  same  when  rich 
and  when  surrounded  with  all  the  luxuries  and 
elegancies  which  great  wealth  commands.  They 
lived,  in  short,  very  much  as  many  rich  people  live 
who  have  few  resources  for  mental  occupation, 
who  are  not  given  to  much  reading  or  much  think- 
ing— in  fact,  just  living  along,  and  keeping  at  the 
old  daily  routine  of  employments.  There  are 
many  who  live  in  this  way,  having  neither  past  to 
enjoy  in  retrospect  nor  future  to  enjoy  in  prospect, 
only  comfortable  in  the  monotonous  present. 

He  was  growing  feeble.  His  brain  was  wear), 
or  worn.  It  hurts  the  brain  to  use  it  forever  on 
one  line  of  employment.  His  had  been  used  for 
nothing  but  business  work  now  a  half-century,  and 
whether  in  memory,  judgment,  or  looking  to  the 
future,  no  thought  had  occupied  it  except  thought 
of  property,  buying  and  selling  and  getting  gain. 
He  had  not  for  years  been  at  three  minutes'  dis- 
tance from  a  telegraph-station.  His  idea  of  a  sum- 
mer vacation  was  to  go  to  a  hotel  where  stock  bul- 
letins were  always  kept  up,  and  stock  operations 
were  the  day  and  evening  subjects  of  discussion. 
No  wonder  that  there  came  a  time  when  he  began 
to  grow  strangely  silent,  sometimes  as  if  drowsy, 
sometimes  morose.     Then  he  suddenly  seemed  to 


SWEET-SCENTED    FERN  5 1 

forget  everything,  and  neither  spoke  nor  wrote, 
nor  went  to  his  private  telegraphic  instrument ;  for 
he  had  made  his  house  an  annex  to  his  office  and 
the  Exchange,  and  had  lived  practically  day  and 
night  in  the  street. 

They  said  his  brain  was  done  with  work,  and  his 
end  was  near.  Still  he  walked  and  rode  around, 
but  never  alone.  One  day  he  was  riding  with  his 
wife  in  the  carriage  along  an  up-town  road,  silent, 
unobservant,  apparently  in  a  stupor,  when  sudden- 
ly he  exclaimed,  "How  sweet  the  ferns  smell  in 
this  sunshine,  Harriet."  She  turned  to  him,  and 
saw  that  his  eyes  were  closed.  She  took  him 
home,  and  after  that  he  lay,  week  after  week,  quiet, 
but  apparently  without  knowing  or  noticing  any- 
thing or  any  one.  But  sometimes  they  saw  a 
smile  spread  over  his  pale  face,  as  if  pleasant 
thoughts  were  in  the  old  brain.  After  months  of 
this,  one  evening  in  the  twilight  he  reached  out  his 
hand  to  her  and  said,  "  How  sweet  the  ferns  are, 
Hattie."  Then  he  seemed  perplexed  about  it,  and 
said,  "  How  sweet  the  ferns  were,  Hattie,"  and 
then  after  a  little  he  came  into  his  right  mind. 

If  in  the  other  life,  which  is  alongside  of  this  our 
life,  close  to  us,  but  invisible  to  us,  there  are,  as  we 
are  taught  by  some  serious  teachers,  angels  ap- 
pointed to  each  of  us,  who  are  sometimes  able  to 
influence  our  thoughts,  it  would  seem  sometimes 
as  if  those  angels  held  in  their  hands  the  ghosts  of 


52        ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

things  that  are  gone,  the  shades  of  our  lost  objects 
of  delight,  and  somehow  made  us  sensible  of  their 
nearness.  Did  his  angel  and  her  angel  hold  in 
their  hands  fragrant  ghostly  ferns  gathered  long 
ago,  with  subtle  odors,  sensible  not  to  the  actual 
sense,  but  quite  so  to  the  mental  sense  ?  Or  did 
they  bring  fronds  that  grow  in  elysian  fields,  which 
bear  odors  like  those  that  are  here  associated  with 
our  purest  recollections  ?  Why  not  ?  There  are 
rivers  there,  and  why  not  golden-rod  on  their  banks, 
and  fragrant  mints  and  ferns  ?  It  must  have  been 
from  heaven,  with  attendant  benediction,  that  the 
odor  of  the  ferns  came  often  to  him.  For  now 
they  two,  old  man  and  old  wife,  lived  again  togeth- 
er for  many  weeks  and  even  months  the  young  life. 
All  its  old  unrecognized  romance  and  all  its  ample 
delight  and  happy  peace  of  mind  came  back  to 
them.  They  talked  now  of  every  tree  and  rock 
and  flower-bed,  of  every  odor  of  field  and  forest. 
You  know  we  cannot  describe  an  odor;  we  can 
only  say  how  sweet  or  disagreeable  it  was ;  but  al- 
ways their  saying  was,  "  Do  you  remember  how  the 
air  was  full  of  the  fragrant  everlasting  that  Sep- 
tember day  when  we  did  so  and  so  ?"  and  they 
talked  over  the  old  stories;  and  now  she  found 
them  in.  books  and  read  them  to  him,  and  the  truth 
that  was  in  them  seemed  very  true.  For  were  they 
not  both  rapidly  nearing  the  world  whereof  they 
had  talked  so  much  and  thought  so  much,  and  were 


SWEET-SCENTED   FERN  53 

they  not  soon  to  see  Moses  and  David  and  Zac- 
cheus  and  Bartimeus?  For  a  year  or  more  they 
were  as  happy  as  two  children,  happy  as  they  had 
been  when  children ;  happier,  I  think,  for  their 
old  hearts  went  rioting  around  in  the  memories  of 
those  days,  and  all  the  pains  of  them  were  gone. 
Once  in  the  summer-time  he  said  he  wished  when 
he  should  be  dead  she  would  send  and  get  a  great 
deal  of  sweet-scented  fern  and  cover  him  with  it. 
And  she  did  so.  And  two  or  three  years  after 
that  she  died.  Do  you  believe  there  will  be  ferns 
in  heaven,  sweet  ferns,  whose  odors  fill  the  air  and 
help  to  memories  of  young  life  here  ?  The  old 
song  of  the  Church  says,  "There  cinnamon  and 
sugar  grow,  there  nard  and  balm  abound."  If  they 
reach  heaven,  and  ferns  grow  there,  they  two  will 
be  found  often  on  some  fern-bank.  To  them  that 
would  add  much  to  what  Gregory  called  "the 
sweet  solemnity  of  those  who  are  come  home  from 
the  sad  labor  of  this  wandering." 


VI 

AN  ANGLER'S  AUGUST  DAY 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  of  a  superb  August 
day,  and  I  had  yet  some  fifteen  miles  to  drive,  all 
the  way  over  hills,  and  the  last  three  miles  up  the 
mountain.  I  was  driving  the  black  horses,  heavy 
animals,  but  swift  devourers  of  mountain  roads, 
rushing  up  hills  and  going  down  them  with  sure 
steps. 

I  had  been  far  down  the  western  valley,  fishing  a 
magnificent  stream  which  is  seldom  visited  by  an- 
glers, and  has  in  it  a  goodly  stock  of  trout.  It  is 
not  to  be  supposed  that  in  this  hot  month  one  can 
take  a  large  basket  of  fish  in  any  lake  or  stream, 
unless  the  weather  be  exceptionally  favorable.  And 
this  day  had  been  by  much  too  bright.  Neverthe- 
less I  had  accomplished  all  that  could  be  desired, 
all  that  any  sensible  angler  has  right  to  desire.  I 
had  strolled  a  mile  or  more,  sometimes  in,  some- 
times alongside  of  a  glorious  torrent,  wandering  its 
ancient  way  through  primeval  forest,  down  the  last 
slope  of  a  mountain  ravine.  My  basket  was  not 
full,  but  there  were  a  couple  of  dozen  of  fair-sized 


AN    angler's   august    DAY  55 

fish  in  it,  and  some  dozens  of  smaller  and  more 
toothsome  trout;  for  to  my  taste  the  only  trout 
which  equal  fresh  sardines  in  delicacy  and  flavor 
are  the  little  fellows,  from  clear  cold  waters,  which, 
fried  brown  and  crisp  with  good  salt  pork,  you  take 
by  their  tails  in  your  fingers  and  eat  bodily,  to  your 
gastronomic  satisfaction. 

The  road  now  led  along  a  flat  stretch  of  wooded 
country  and  came  out  in  a  clearing,  where  has  been 
for  more  than  thirty  years  a  small  saw -mill.  A 
stream,  rising  in  a  swamp  a  mile  or  two  above  the 
mill,  is  dammed  at  the  road-crossing,  and  sets  back 
a  small  pond  of  two  or  three  acres,  mostly  shallow, 
except  where  the  old  bed  of  the  brook  winds 
through  it.  The  pond  was  a  mirror  in  the  now 
reddening  light  of  the  sun  which  just  rested  on  the 
ridge  of  a  tree -fringed  hill  to  the  westward.  A 
small  boy  was  standing  at  the  road-side,  looking  at 
the  water.  Oddly  enough  he  recognized  me,  as 
having  more  than  once  met  me  on  streams  in  the 
neighborhood.  "Oh,  mister !"  he  shouted,  as  he  saw 
me,  and  ran  towards  the  buck-board.  Of  course  I 
pulled  up. 

"There's  a  buster  of  a  trout  in  the  pond  this 
year.  You  can  see  him  walloping  around  every 
day  just  about  this  time.  There  he  goes  now.  Isn't 
he  a  slosher  ?" 

Up  at  the  head  of  the  pond,  where  the  stream 
came  in,  there  was  a  great  swash  in  the  water,  and 


^6        ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

the  waves  which  rolled  away  in  a  circle  indicated  a 
heavy  animal  of  some  sort. 

"  Isn't  it  a  musk-rat  ?" 

"  No,  sir,"  with  emphasis  on  the  last  word.  "  I've 
seen  him  go  two  feet  up  into  the  air  more  times  nor 
you  can  count.  He  mostly  stays  up  there.  But  he 
won't  take  no  worm  nor  grasshopper.  Last  June 
father  tried  him  with  a  white  grub,  but  you  see  its 
shaller  water  up  there,  and  we  can't  get  nowhere 
near  him  with  the  raft  without  scaring  him." 

"  Where  is  your  raft  ?" 

"  Down  there  by  them  willers." 

I  handed  over  the  reins  to  my  driver  and  took 
my  rod.  It  was  ready  for  instant  use.  I  never 
drive  in  this  country  without  a  rod  in  the  wagon, 
and  when  actually  off  for  a  day's  fishing  I  do  not 
take  the  rod  apart  until  I  have  left  the  last  possible 
angling  places  behind  me  for  the  day.  There  were 
two  flies  on  the  leader,  which  was  stout,  for  fishing 
a  rough  river.  They  were  not  flies  likely  to  be  of 
any  use  on  a  still  pond ;  so  I  put  on  a  gossamer 
leader,  with  two  small  gnats  for  bobbers  and  a 
small  white  moth  for  the  tail.  It  was  early  for  the 
moth,  but  as  it  was  already  on  the  leader  in  my  fly- 
book  I  did  not  change  it. 

The  raft  was  a  boy's,  built  for  some  seventy-five 
pounds  of  humanity  to  float  on.  Two  hundred 
weight  was  almost  too  much  for  it,  and  it  sunk  one 
or  the  other  end  as  I  balanced  myself  on  it,  stand- 


AN   ANGLERS   AUGUST    DAY  57 

ing  in  my  rubber  boots  with  a  varying  depth  of 
water  swashing  over  my  feet.  I  poled  out  into  and 
across  the  pond  towards  the  inlet.  The  boy  was 
right  as  to  the  swirl  being  that  of  a  trout.  As  I 
pushed  along  carefully  and  looked  ahead  I  saw  two 
similar  swirls  three  rods  apart.  There  were  two  of 
them  then,  at  least,  and  possibly  more ;  for  now  I 
began  to  recall  the  fact  that  years  ago  the  owner 
of  the  saw-mill  told  me  there  were  large  trout  in  his 
pond  which  he  could  not  take ;  but  I  then  thought, 
from  its  shallow  character,  with  muddy  bottom,  that 
he  probably  saw  pickerel  or  some  other  fish,  espe- 
cially as  the  next  owner  a  few  years  afterwards  had 
told  me  there  were  no  trout  in  the  pond  and  no 
small  trout  in  the  swamp  brook  above  it. 

Did  you  ever  pole  a  raft  over  a  pond  with  soft 
mud  bottom  ?  No  ?  Then  you  have  never  enjoyed 
the  finest  possible  illustration  of  many  scientific 
principles,  action  and  reaction,  the  correlation  and 
conservation  of  forces,  the  attraction  of  cohesion, 
innumerable  interesting  subjects  of  consideration, 
all  of  which  would  be  pleasant  to  study  if  you  were 
not  occupied  with  your  immediate  purpose  of  get- 
ting across  the  water.  There  is  a  pleasant  assur- 
ance of  advance  as  you  drop  the  end  of  the  pole, 
push  gently  downward  and  backward,  looking  for- 
ward, and  the  pole  passes  through  your  grasp, 
renewed  again  and  again,  till  the  end  is  in  your 
hand  and  you  hold  on  to  draw  forward  for  another 


58        ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

shove.  But  you  can't  draw  it  forward.  It  draws 
you  backward,  and  the  heavy  raft,  moving  almost 
imperceptibly,  has  yet,  with  your  added  weight, 
sufficient  momentum  to  go  forward  with  your  feet 
while  your  hands  remain  stationary,  and  you  turn 
around,  desperately  grasping  one  end  of  the  pole 
whose  other  end  has  gone  down  deep  into  the  tena- 
cious bottom  mud.  It  went  down  so  easily,  gently, 
softly,  that  while  you  thought  you  had  pushed  your 
raft  ten  feet  forward,  you  had  only  pushed  your 
pole  nine  feet  into  the  mud ;  and  yet,  lovingly  as  it 
went  into  the  soft  bottom,  it  refuses  to  return.  Look 
out  for  yourself  now.  Hold  on  to  the  pole,  or  you 
will  be  adrift  on  the  pond  with  no  means  of  reach- 
ing shore.  Hold  on  with  your  toes,  with  the  soles 
of  your  boots,  with  your  knees,  anyhow  you  can, 
hold  on  to  the  raft.  I  have  seen  many  an  inex- 
perienced man  push  his  raft  out  from  under  his 
feet.  I  have  done  it  myself  in  days  of  juvenile  in- 
experience. 

My  raft  was  not  a  very  heavy  one,  and  the  rule 
is  to  use  your  pole  without  deep  pushing  on  such 
ponds,  rather  dragging,  with  the  end  only  a  little 
way  in  the  mud. 

I  had  followed  the  edge  of  the  old  bed  of  the 
brook,  and  with  patience  and  perseverance  came 
within  a  hundred  feet  of  the  place  where  the  last 
trout  had  risen.  There  was  no  perceptible  motion 
in  the  air,  but  there  was  a  motion,  nevertheless. 


AN   angler's   august   DAY  59 

such  as  anglers  are  familiar  with,  indicated  by  the 
fact  that  your  cast  goes  out  more  easily  with  than 
against  it.  My  rod  was  good  for  long  casting,  and 
I  could  lay  the  white  moth-tail  fly  down  within  a 
few  feet  of  the  spot  I  desired  to  reach.  I  laid  it 
down  there  a  dozen  times,  and  nothing  else  dis- 
turbed the  surface,  which  now  reflected  a  rosy 
cloud  in  the  south-west.  The  sun  had  gone  down. 
The  original  impetus  given  the  raft  and  the  exist- 
ing movement  of  the  atmosphere  were  carrying  me 
slowly  towards  the  mouth  of  the  brook,  which  came 
out,  a  rod  wide,  between  high  banks  covered  with 
dense  sedges.  Up  in  the  stream  I  saw  three  or 
four  times  the  lift  of  a  trout's  head  as  he  rose 
gently  to  the  surface  and  took  in  some  floating  in- 
sect. He  was  feeding,  August  fashion,  on  some 
very  small  gnat,  too  small  for  imitation.  So  I  tried 
approximation,  changing  the  tail -fly,  and  for  the 
white  moth  substituting  a  minute  black  object,  the 
smallest  lure  known  to  my  book,  or  any  one's  book, 
being  a  tiny  hook,  smaller  than  any  regular  number, 
tied  with  a  yellow  body  and  a  delicate  sparse  black 
hackle,  not  an  eighth  of  an  inch  long.  I  had  drifted 
to  the  very  mouth  of  the  brook  by  the  time  this  was 
ready,  and  the  first  cast  sent  it  far  up  the  canal-like 
stream.  As  it  struck  the  water  there  was  a  mag- 
nificent roll  of  the  glassy  surface,  a  flash  of  reflected 
blue  and  crimson  and  pink  and  white  in  the  wa- 
ter.    It  was  as  if  some  gorgeous  piece  of  fireworks 


6o        ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

had  burst  on  the  dark  surface  between  the  sedge 
banks. 

How  many  pounds  of  trout  flesh  and  force  were 
now  on  the  end  of  that  gossamer  leader  I  shall 
never  be  able  to  tell  you,  for  when  he  felt  the 
slight  stroke  which  fixed  the  tiny  hook  in  his 
mouth,  he  made  one  swift,  short  rush,  and  I  found 
that  the  leader  was  fastened  on  something  heavier 
than  a  trout.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  break 
it  loose  or  pole  up  the  stream  and  try  to  unfasten 
it,  I  broke  it,  for  I  wanted  another  cast  over  that 
water.  Half  of  the  leader  came  home,  with  one  fly 
yet  on.  I  looped  the  end,  put  on  another  of  the 
same  small  black  hackles,  cast  three  times ;  at  the 
third  cast  again  saw  the  brilliant  explosion  of  the 
water-surface,  again  struck  a  heavy  fish,  and  was 
again  fast  to  something  immovable. 

This  time  I  poled  up  to  the  spot.  I  might  have 
hooked  a  hundred  fish  there  and  should  never  have 
gotten  one.  For  my  tail-fly  had  fallen  each  time 
just  about  ten  feet  beyond  a  great  tree-trunk — a 
smooth,  round  log,  two  feet  thick — of  which  the 
two  ends  were  embedded  in  the  banks  on  either 
side,  while  the  log  itself  stretched  across  the  stream 
about  six  inches  below  the  surface.  Under  it  the 
water  was  ten  feet  deep,  and  the  fish  had  risen  from 
this  hole  and  plunged  back  into  it,  catching  the  up- 
per flies  in  the  log. 

Twilight  was  established  by  the  time  I  had  put 


AN   angler's   august   DAY  6 1 

on  the  small  white  moth  which  I  proposed  to  use 
for  the  last  few  casts.  You  will  observe  that  my 
raft  would  not  go  over  the  log,  and  I  could  go  no 
farther  up-stream.  So  I  sent  the  flies  up  again 
and  again  and  again,  while  the  night  gathered  rap- 
idly. Our  twilights  grow  short  up  here  in  August. 
The  air  was  ringing  with  the  voices  of  frogs,  with 
indescribable  variety  of  tone  and  Enunciation. 
The  sharp  cry  of  a  night-bird  in  the  air  overhead 
pierced  my  ears.  I  saw  a  great  Cecropia  moth 
crossing  the  stream  just  beyond  my  cast,  and  a 
dozen  smaller  moths  flitting  over  the  sedges.  Sud- 
denly, behind  me,  a  trout  rose  in  the  old  place.  I 
fixed  the  pole  against  the  log,  pushed  the  raft 
back,  and  dropped  the  tail-fly  in  the  centre  of  the 
circle  of  waves.  This  time  I  struck  my  fish  firmly, 
and  he  went  for  open  water ;  it  was  an  easy  matter 
to  bring  him  in ;  he  was  only  a  two-pounder.  A 
two-pound  trout  is  a  small  affair  to  the  angler  who 
has  lost  a  four-pounder.  And  those  two  fish  I  lost 
were,  of  course,  four-pounders — five-pounders ;  who 
can  prove  to  me  that  they  were  not  ? 

Whatever  their  weight,  I  was  fully  as  content  as 
if  they  were  in  my  basket,  which  hung  on  my 
shoulder,  or  on  the  dry  end  of  my  raft  if  they  were 
too  large  for  the  basket.  I  see  your  smile  of  in- 
credulity, my  friend;  but  you  are  one  of  the  mis- 
erably uneducated  community  who  will  never  ap- 
preciate the  fact  that  the  joy  of  the  angler's  day  is 


62  ALONG   NEW    ENGLAND    ROADS 

in  the  surroundings  of  his  sport.  The  very  regrets 
he  may  have  for  lost  fish  are  pleasant,  not  painful, 
if  the  day  has  been  bountiful  in  the  ordinary  de- 
lights which  attend  the  fisherman.  My  day  had 
been  exceedingly  rich.  As  the  horses  came  up  the 
dark  mountain  road,  guiding  their  own  steps  since 
I  could  not  see  to  guide  them,  I  recalled  a  score  of 
beautiful  scenes  along  the  course  of  the  mountain 
torrent,  great  bowlders  lying  in  the  foam,  fern-cov- 
ered cliffs,  under  which  the  river  ran  swift  and 
smooth,  giant  white  birch -trees  on  the  bank,  the 
outposts  of  armies  of  mighty  trees  behind  them, 
rank  on  rank  as  far  as  eye  could  penetrate  their 
array.  And  the  dark  lagoon-like  stream,  on  which 
the  twilight  came  down  till  the  stars  were  reflected 
in  it ;  the  swoop  of  the  nighthawks  overhead ;  the 
call  of  the  whippoorwill  sitting  on  the  saw-mill  roof 
and  the  answer  of  his  kin  on  the  hill-side  beyond — 
where  can  one  close  the  catalogue  of  sights  and 
sounds  and  thoughts,  which  made  the  hour's  delay 
at  the  mill-pond  a  charming  episode  at  the  close 
of  an  angler's  August  day  ? 


VII 

VIEWS   FROM  A   HILL-TOP 

"  He  was  a  very  old  man,"  said  the  landlord. 

"  How  old  ?"  I  asked ;  "  what  do  you  mean  by 
'very  old?'" 

"  Well,  close  on  to  ninety,  I  should  say.  No  one 
exactly  knew,  and  he  didn't  know  himself.  At 
least  he  said  he  didn't." 

•'  He  ought  to  have  known  a  great  deal." 

"  Well,  it  ain't  always  the  man  that  Kves  the 
longest  that  learns  the  most.  But  Uncle  Zekel  did 
know  a  considerable  deal.  There  wasn't  a  tree  or 
a  plant  around  here  he  couldn't  tell  you  something 
about.  There  wasn't  a  square  foot  of  land  within 
ten  miles  that  he  didn't  know  everything  that  would 
or  wouldn't  grow  on  it.  Then  he  understood  the 
weather  better  than  the  newspapers  nowadays, 
and  he  knew  human  natur'  through  and  through. 
He  never  made  a  mistake  in  judgin'  a  man.  He 
was  sharp  as  a  steel-trap  when  any  one  tried  to 
come  it  over  him.  But  he  was  so  kind  o'  simple  in 
his  ways  and  his  talk  that  strangers  never  thought 
much  of  him.    Yes,  he  knew  a  great  deal  more 


64        ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

than  any  of  the  rest  of  us  hereabouts.  Somehow 
everybody  believed  that  he  could  see  farther  into  a 
stone  than  any  other  man." 

We  were  talking  of  an  old  man  recently  dead. 
It  was  at  a  way-side  inn  in  Vermont,  where  I  had 
stopped  for  the  horses  to  feed  and  rest,  and  I  was 
talking  with  the  farmer-landlord,  seated  under  a  tree 
that  shaded  the  front  of  the  cottage-inn.  Across 
the  road,  a  little  way  below,  there  was  a  gathering 
at  the  door  of  a  small  house,  which  had  led  to  the 
talk.  The  village  people  were  coming  together  to 
carry  to  his  grave  the  oldest  resident,  and  while 
they  were  gathering  the  landlord  told  me  about 
him. 

No  one  now  living  remembered  when  he  came  to 
this  part  of  the  country.  He  was  a  Scotchman  by 
birth,  and  though  long  practice  had  modified  his 
voice  and  accent,  there  always  remained  in  it  some 
of  the  peculiarity  which  is  musical  to  all  who  are 
familiar  with  Highland  voices.  He  had  been  mar- 
ried in  his  early  life,  had  children,  and  a  household 
whose  memories  he  sometimes,  but  rarely,  referred 
to.  All  were  gone.  Wife  and  children  had  now 
lain  side  by  side  in  the  village  graveyard  for  more 
than  a  half-century.  All  his  friends  of  early  life 
were  gone  as  well.  Most  of  them  rested  in  the 
same  safe  enclosure. 

Now  this  man's  life  was  not,  you  will  say,  remark- 
able in  anything.     It  was  but  the  common  life  of 


VIEWS    FROM    A    HILL-TOP  65 

man  in  the  country,  only  a  little  longer  than  the 
average.  You  are  right  in  this,  that  it  was  only  an 
ordinary  human  life,  but  every  life  is  remarkable, 
and  worth  studying.  I  had  small  opportunity  for 
study  of  this.  But  I  went  across  the  road  and 
joined  the  increasing  assembly.  He  was  lying  in 
the  middle  of  the  small  room  into  which  the  door 
opened.  There  was  no  fire  on  the  broad  hearth. 
"  It's  the  first  time  that  hearth  has  been  cold  for 
fifty  years  that  I  remember,"  said  the  landlord. 

In  the  room  were  many  evidences  of  the  life  he 
had  led,  memorials  which  no  one  now  lived  to 
cherish.  An  old  musket  and  a  muzzle-loading  gun 
hung  on  one  side  of  the  room.  The  antlers  of  a 
moose  and  several  of  red  deer  were  disposed  as 
conveniences  for  hanging  household  utensils.  Sev- 
eral strangely  worn  stones  from  rivers,  curiously 
twisted  and  involved  growths  of  trees,  brilliant  bits 
of  mica  and  other  minerals,  were  on  the  mantel- 
shelf over  the  fireplace.  There  was  no  ceiling  to 
the  room.  The  rafters  were  bare,  and  the  sheath- 
ing on  the  sides  was  nearly  black  with  smoke  and 
time. 

It  was  not  the  hour  or  place  in  which  to  indulge 
curiosity,  but  I  could  not  shut  my  eyes  to  the  sur- 
roundings out  of  which  this  life  had  gone.  And 
when  some  one  gave  me  a  chair  I  found  myself 
seated  by  a  small  solid  table,  on  which  lay  one 
book,  a  copy  of  the  Breeches  Bible.  It  was  verily 
5 


66        ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

a  family  Bible.  It  was  an  edition,  if  I  remember 
aright,  of  1595.  And  on  the  margins  and  blank 
reverses  of  leaves,  in  old  and  faded  ink,  there  were 
pithy  sentences  written  by  generations  of  Scotch 
Presbyterians,  of  whom  this  man  lying  dead  here 
was  last.  He,  too,  had  gone  to  join  the  numerous 
company,  among  whom  are  mart)a"s  and  saints,  and 
along  his  path,  as  he  had  travelled  here  almost  a 
century,  he  had  the  same  old  guide-book  they  had 
used.  It  is  a  wonderful  guide-book :  good  for  men 
in  the  rush  and  crush  of  cities,  as  for  men  in  the 
quiet,  lonesome  places  of  the  up-country. 

As  he  lay  there  men  talked  freely  about  him,  and 
it  was  wonderful  to  hear  the  affection  and  respect 
which  were  universally  expressed  for  him.  Every 
one  had  loved  him,  and  all  alike  felt  the  loss  of  a 
friend.  On  his  farm,  a  hundred  rods  from  the 
house,  was  a  knoll  which  rose  gently  on  one  side 
some  seventy  or  eighty  feet,  and  from  its  summit 
fell  off  precipitously  to  the  river  which  ran  with 
loud  voice  over  rocks  below.  It  had  been  a  fa- 
vorite resting-place  with  the  old  man,  and  the  young 
man  when  he  was  growing  old.  There  were  stones 
so  arranged  by  accident  that  they  made  a  seat,  not 
very  comfortable,  but  men  do  not  seek  cushioned 
resting-places  in  the  up-country.  He  had  seen  suns 
rise  and  suns  set  many  times,  sitting  there.  Much 
of  the  gentleness  of  his  nature  had  come  from  the 
long  habit  of  sitting  there  a  little  while  now  and 


VIEWS    FROM    A    HILL-TOP  67 

then  and  thinking.  More  had  come  from  that  old 
Bible ;  and  the  two — the  holy  book  and  the  calm 
contemplation — had  worked  together  in  his  soul. 
He  had  some  favorite  subjects  of  thought  which 
he  occasionally  talked  about.  The  marvel  of  the 
universe,  which  bothers  philosophic  theorists,  was  no 
marvel  to  him,  but  one  grand  fact  which  he  realized. 
"  I  can  never  forget,"  said  the  village  pastor,  "  how 
he  impressed  me  with  a  sudden  exclamation  when 
we  were  talking  about  the  discoveries  of  science 
and  the  laws  of  nature.  He  said,  '  What  idea  can 
any  man  have  of  God  who  thinks,  with  his  poor 
eyes  and  inventions  of  glass  and  brass,  he  can  see 
into  and  across  the  whole  province  which  his  God 
governs.'  Another  time  he  said,  '  I'm  a  Democrat 
with  men,  but  with  God  there  is  no  democracy,  to 
my  notion.  Men  get  to  preaching  equality  so 
much  that  they  don't  believe  themselves  any  lower 
than  the  angels,  and  imagine  that  the  universe  is 
ruled  by  a  Master  who  will  exist  or  not,  just  as  his 
subjects  think  best.' 

" '  Star-gazing  you  call  it,  do  ye,'  he  said  to  one 
who  saw  him  sitting  on  his  porch  one  night.  *  Yes, 
but  I'm  not  looking  at  the  stars  ;  I'm  looking  be- 
tween and  beyond  them,  and  I  see  a  country  out 
yonder  in  which  there's  no  law  of  nature,  no  attrac- 
tion, no  force,  nothing  that  I  read  about  in  men's 
books,  only  the  will  of  God,  which  is  light  and  force 
a,nd  law  ^nd  all.' " 


68        ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

Such  expressions  indicate  the  effect  on  his  mind 
of  his  habit  of  thought  on  the  hill-top.  In  all  times 
men  have  gone  up  into  high  places  to  think  and  to 
pray.  There  is  no  place  so  lonesome  as  the  sum- 
mit of  a  hill.  It  lifts  a  man  out  of  the  world.  I 
have  known  many  men,  of  utterly  irreverent  and 
thoughtless  character  of  mind,  awed  and  terrified 
at  finding  themselves  on  high  mountain  peaks,  and 
afraid  to  stay  there.  I  remember  once,  many  years 
ago,  when  there  was  no  hotel  on  Mount  Washing- 
ton, and  I  had  gone  up  there  intending  to  stay  all 
night  and  see  the  sun  rise,  a  sense  of  awe  and  lone- 
someness  overtook  me  which  I  vainly  strove  to  re- 
sist. I  had  passed  nights  alone  in  forests,  on  the 
sea  in  an  open  boat,  but  this  was  intolerable. 
There  was  a  feeling,  indeed,  of  lonesomeness,  but 
at  the  same  time  of  being  surrounded  by  an  unseen 
crowd  of  witnesses.  So  I  was  driven  down,  and 
made  my  dangerous  way  into  lower  regions  more 
associated  with  my  young  humanity. 

But  the  old  man  was  never  alone  on  his  hill-top, 
having  in  long  years  learned  to  talk  much  with  the 
unseen  who  met  him  there,  and  look  earnestly  into 
space  if  perchance  he  might  see  there  a  vision  of 
superhuman  beauty.  And  one  day  he  saw  what  he 
had  waited  for.  It  was  a  clear,  cool  summer  day, 
with  a  north-west  wind  drifting  clouds  across  an  in- 
tensely blue  sky,  A  neighbor  who  had  occasion  to 
see  him,  not  finding  him  at  home,  walked  out  and 


VIEWS    FROM   A    HILL-TOP  69 

up  the  hill  just  after  sunset.  The  old  man  was  sit- 
ting on  the  rock  seat,  reclining  on  another  rock 
which  supported  his  back  and  head.  He  had  been 
looking  into  the  depths  of  the  clear  atmosphere,  and 
as  he  lay  there  looking,  there  came  suddenly  into 
his  vision  that  which  eye  hath  not  seen  from  earthly 
mountain  peak;  ear  hath  not  heard  from  voice,  how- 
soever eloquent  and  musical;  heart  of  man,  even 
his  gentle,  thoughtful  heart,  had  not  conceived. 
Who  shall  attempt  to  say  with  what  serene  and 
solemn  joy  the  old  man  had  seen  the  blue  heavens 
opened,  and  the  glory  that  is  not  of  sun  or  stars,  and 
had  entered  into  it  1 


VIII 

OVER   THE   HIGHLANDS  OF  WESTERN   NEW 
HAMPSHIRE 

It  was  a  fresh  autumn  morning  when  we  left  the 
village  of  New  London,  high  up  on  the  hills  of  cen- 
tral New  Hampshire,  and  drove  westward,  without 
any  definite  idea  of  our  destination. 

New  Hampshire  possesses  all  kinds  of  scenery 
and  soil.  The  northern  mountain  country  falls  off 
into  a  valley  which  crosses  the  western  half  of  the 
State,  in  no  very  direct  line,  from  the  valley  of  the 
Connecticut  near  Hanover  to  the  valley  of  the  Mer- 
rimac  near  Franklin  Falls.  South  of  this  valley — 
the  west  half  of  the  State — running  north  and  south, 
is  a  range  of  highlands,  mostly  now  or  formerly  un- 
der cultivation,  rising  in  farm-lands  at  times  to  a 
height  which  I  believe  is  considerably  more  than 
I  GOG  feet  above  the  sea.  You  know  Mount  Kear- 
sarge,  near  North  Conway.  But  few  persons  seem 
to  know  that  there  is  another  Mount  Kearsarge  in 
the  State.  This  lies  at  the  northern  or  north-east- 
ern end  of  the  range  of  highlands  of  which  I  speak, 
and  is,  in  part,  in  the  town  of  New  London,  or  di- 
rectly east  of  it  in  the  next  town.     It  is  a  very 


HIGHLANDS   OF   WESTERN   NEW    HAMPSHIRE     7I 

noble  hill,  rising  alone  out  of  the  cultivated  rolling 
lands.  Away  down  in  the  south-western  part  of  the 
State  a  similar  mountain  rises  in  stately  grandeur, 
Monadnock  by  name,  and  thence  the  highlands 
of  New  Hampshire  fall  off  gently  towards  Massa- 
chusetts. 

This  topographical  account  is  not  interesting,  but 
it  is  necessary  to  understand  it  if  you  would  under- 
stand carriage  travel  to  the  southward  in  the  State, 
west  of  the  Merrimac  River.  You  can  drive  from 
the  Profile  House  or  the  Crawford  House  to  Hart- 
ford, following  the  valleys  of  the  Amonoosuck  and 
the  Connecticut,  without  a  hill  of  any  account 
on  the  road.  The  scenery  along  the  entire  route 
is  lovely  beyond  all  praise,  its  variety  infinite,  its 
beauty  equal  in  spring,  summer,  and  autumn.  The 
roads  are,  however,  somewhat  sandy  and  heavy,  es- 
pecially in  dry  weather. 

You  can  also  drive  from  either  notch,  Franconia 
or  the  Crawford,  through  the  eastern  part  of  New 
Hampshire  southward  to  Massachusetts,  over  roads 
without  severe  hills  and  with  varying  scenery,  most 
of  it  very  beautiful. 

But  I  prefer  the  hill  roads  through  the  highland 
country  between  the  Merrimac  and  the  Connecti- 
cut, These  roads  are  in  general  good,  the  road- 
beds hard,  and  the  many  fine  views  repay  the  la- 
bor of  climbing  hills.  Withal,  horses  do  better,  if 
carefully  driven,  on  rolling  than  on  level  roads. 


71        ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

I  had  come  from  the  Profile  House  down  the 
Pemigewasset  Valley  through  Plymouth  to  Bristol, 
thence  across  to  New  London,  via  Danbury,  Wil- 
mot,  and  Scytheville.  At  this  last  place  I  had 
reached  the  bottom  of  the  cross-valley  which  I  have 
mentioned,  and  thence  the  road  to  New  London 
was  uphill  all  the  way,  with  Kearsarge  on  the  left 
and  behind  us.  New  London  is  one  of  the  high 
hill-towns,  and  every  house  in  the  village  looks  off 
many  miles  over  fields  and  forests. 

Turning  the  horses'  heads  to  the  southward,  I 
could  have  gone  down  through  Sutton  and  Brad- 
ford, and  thence  over  tremendous  hills  to  Washing- 
ton. Turning  them  to  the  west,  I  should  have  a 
short  drive  to  Lake  Sunapee,  which  lies  on  the  up- 
land, surrounded  by  low  wooded  hills.  I  had  driv- 
en both  roads  repeatedly.  I  am  never  tired  of 
driving  the  last  named,  for  it  is  exceedingly  beau- 
tiful, and  we  chose  it  now. 

In  half  an  hour  we  were  going  through  the  dense 
woods  which  skirt  Little  Sunapee,  the  upper  of  a 
chain  of  three  lakes,  and  of  which  you  see  only 
glimpses  as  you  pass  along  by  it,  until  you  reach 
its  outlet,  which  goes  down  into  Otter  Pond.  Here 
the  road  strikes  the  upper  end  of  Otter  Pond,  and 
sweeps  around  on  its  open  shore  for  a  quarter- 
mile.  The  pond  is  charming,  a  mile  or  two  long 
and  nearly  as  wide.  The  shore  is  clean  sand  and 
the  water  pellucid.    I  have  waded  off  on  this  hard, 


HIGHLANDS   OF    WESTERN    NEW    HAMPSHIRE     73 

sandy  bottom  and  taken  black  bass  with  the  fly, 
casting  out  to  right  and  left,  while  my  horses  stood 
waiting  on  the  road. 

Fish  Commissioners  in  some  of  Our  States  have 
laboriously  spoiled  the  fishing  in  a  great  many  wa- 
ters by  introducing  these  black  bass.  Pickerel  or 
perch  or  pumpkin-seeds  are  a  more  valuable  food- 
fish  to  the  farming  population  than  black  bass,  and 
black  bass  when  placed  in  a  pond  will  destroy  all 
other  fish.  It  is  only  a  question  of  time,  and  the 
destruction  is  sure  to  be  complete,  except  in  large 
bodies  of  water.  The  bass  are  protected  by  law 
till  June  isth,  and  in  some  States  till  July  ist.  In 
July  and  August  they  can  be  taken  only  with  prop- 
er tackle  and  strong  tackle,  such  as  the  farmer's 
boy  does  not  possess.  As  soon  as  the  weather 
and  the  water  begin  to  grow  cold,  these  fish  begin 
to  find  places  where  they  hibernate.  After  the 
middle  of  September  they  cannot  be  taken  at  all 
by  any  one  with  any  tackle  except  in  large  lakes, 
and  in  those  not  after  October.  Here,  then,  is  a 
fish  of  very  small  value  to  a  population.  It  is  time 
that  all  laws  protecting  them  in  the  spring  were  re- 
pealed. Let  the  farmer  get  them  whenever  he  can. 
There  is  no  danger  of  their  extermination — I  wish 
there  were ;  but  if  their  increase  can  be  kept  down 
in  the  smaller  lakes  and  ponds,  it  may  happen  that 
some  other  fish  will  survive. 

We  drove  slowly  around  the  head  of  Otter  Pond, 


74        ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

then  through  the  forest  road  along  its  rocky  shore, 
with  the  water  lapsing  over  the  stones  and  making 
pleasant  music  in  the  sunshine.  Then  we  came 
out  of  the  woods  at  the  little  village  of  George's 
Mills.  Here  is  the  outlet  of  the  pond,  which  falls 
over  two  or  three  saw-mill  dams  in  its  short  course 
into  Lake  Sunapee.  Sunapee  is  a  large,  wandering 
lake,  presenting  wherever  you  strike  it  abundant 
beauty  of  scenery.  Bold,  rocky  headlands,  covered 
with  timber,  jut  out  into  it,  and  deep  shadowy  bays 
lie  between  them.  I  never  yet  have  gotten  to  know- 
ing which  way  is  up  and  which  way  is  down  the 
lake  or  how  it  stretches  its  chief  length.  Properly 
speaking,  this  principal  inlet,  the  only  one  of  any 
account  at  George's  Mills,  ought  to  mark  the  head 
of  the  lake ;  but  a  long,  narrow  arm  which  goes  far 
away  to  the  eastward,  along  whose  shores  are  villas 
and  cottages,  and  which  heads  at  Newbury,  on  the 
Concord  and  Claremont  Railroad,  always  tempts 
me  to  consider  that  the  upper  end  of  the  lake. 
However,  there  is  no  mistaking  the  outlet  at  Suna- 
pee Harbor,  into  which  I  drove  before  dinner. 
Here  Sugar  River,  a  roaring  torrent  (depending  on 
how  high  they  lift  the  gate-way  of  the  dam  which 
holds  back  the  lake),  plunges  down  a  steep  decliv- 
ity and  finds  the  valley,  through  which  it  winds 
with  clear  and  swift  flow  to  Newport,  and  thence  to 
Claremont  and  the  Connecticut. 
We  dined,  and  then  decided  to  linger  for  the  day. 


HIGHLANDS  OF  WESTERN   NEW   HAMPSHIRE     75 

I  took  a  boat  and  rowed  miles  and  miles  along  the 
shores ;  landed  here  and  there  in  golden  forests  or 
dark  pine  groves ;  cast  flies  where  bass,  if  not  yet 
gone  to  their  winter  sleep,  ought  to  be  found ;  took 
several  that  were  not  eight  inches  long,  and  were 
put  back  to  go  to  bed  and  grow  next  year ;  and  so 
idled  away  the  afternoon.    The  night  came  on  cold. 

Next  day  we  rode  with  the  carriage-cover  thrown 
back,  to  give  us  what  warmth  we  might  get  from  the 
sun  shining  through  the  still  dense  smoke.  The 
road  follows  the  river  down  to  Newport ;  but  we  did 
not  stop  in  that  thriving  town,  except  to  post  letters 
and  send  some  telegrams.  Driving  through  it,  we 
crossed  the  valley  and  took  the  hill  road  to  Unity 
or  Unitoga  Springs.  This  is  a  lonesome  but  very 
charming  country-place,  where  are  mineral  springs 
and  an  old  hotel.  We  had  the  house  to  ourselves ; 
and  again  the  loveliness  of  the  atmosphere,  the  rich 
foliage  on  the  near  hills,  and  the  dust  of  gold  smoke 
that  made  a  canopy  over  us  and  hid  the  far  views, 
all  tempted  us  to  stay.  I  spent  the  afternoon  in 
the  woods  on  the  shore  of  a  small  lake  a  mile  from 
the  hotel.  I  went  there  to  fish  j  but  the  only  boats 
on  the  lake  were  full  of  water,  and  there  was  no 
spot  on  shore  where  I  could  get  out  a  cast  of  more 
than  twenty  feet.  At  that  I  took  some  perch  and 
small  pickerel  with  the  fly,  but  gave  it  up  soon  and 
wandered  in  the  woods,  rich  in  ferns  and  mosses. 

The  next  morning  I  sought  and  found  a  road, 


7(5        ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

before  unknown  to  me,  by  which  to  reach  the  Con- 
necticut Valley;  for  it  was  Saturday,  and  I  pro- 
posed that  my  horses  and  I  should  rest  over  Sun- 
day in  the  fine  old  village  of  Charlestown.  It  was 
only  nineteen  miles  from  Unity  Springs,  but  in 
carriage  travel  we  never,  unless  from  some  peculiar 
pressure,  seek  to  accomplish  great  distances.  The 
purpose  is  the  enjoyment  of  the  passing  hours.  I 
often  linger  along  the  road  and  cover  only  two  or 
three  or  a  half-dozen  miles  in  a  forenoon.  So  it  was 
along  this  charming  road.  When  I  reached  Charles- 
town  I  had  driven  only  io8  miles  from  the  Profile 
House  in  six  days.  Sometimes  I  drive  i8o  in  the 
same  time,  taking  the  road  leisurely  and  keeping  the 
horses  unwearied.  I  have  known  of  gentlemen  mak- 
ing 230  and  250  miles  between  Sunday  and  Sunday, 
with  travelling  carriages.  But  I  have  not  known 
an  instance  of  that  kind  which  was  not  followed  by 
the  sickness  of  one  or  more  of  the  horses  that  did  it. 
The  traveller  by  carriage  must  keep  in  mind  that  he 
is  dependent  on  the  good  condition  of  his  horses 
for  continuous  journeying,  and  must  therefore  care 
for  them  with  unfailing  watchfulness.  It  is  more 
important  that  they  should  find  a  good  stable  than 
that  he  should  find  a  good  inn  at  night.  He  can 
put  up  with  poor  lodgings  and  food,  and  feel  none 
the  worse  for  it,  whereas  the  dumb  horse  must  suffer 
m  a  cold  draughty  stable,  and  may  come  out  of  it 
to  sicken  and  fail  along  the  road. 


IX 

THE  TRIUMPHANT   CHARIOT 

The  rector  told  me  the  story  as  we  stood  in 
front  of  the  church  after  morning  service. 

The  church  was  almost  hidden  in  a  grove  of 
maple-trees.  It  stood  on  the  brow  of  a  hill  which 
overlooked  one  of  the  most  lovely  valleys  on  the 
sides  of  the  Green  Mountains.  The  road  ran 
along  the  curve  of  the  hill,  in  front  of  the  church. 
The  projection  on  which  the  church  stood  com- 
manded a  view  both  up  and  down  as  well  as  across 
the  valley,  which  lay  two  or  three  hundred  feet  be- 
low. The  mountain  sloped  upward,  mostly  forest- 
covered,  behind  the  church.  Across  the  valley  was 
a  similar  mountain.  The  pasture  lots  went  up,  here 
and  there,  almost  to  the  summit  ridges.  The  head 
of  the  valley  was  only  a  half-mile  above.  Down 
from  a  ravine  came  a  noble  stream  of  water,  and 
before  it  fairly  reached  the  sloping  valley-land  it 
received  two  similar  streams,  the  three  alike  falling 
over  rocky  beds  with  much  noise  and  white  confu- 
sion of  waters  before  they  came  together  into  the 
comparatively  peaceful  river  which  flowed  down 


78        ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

through  rich  meadow-lands  and  away  oceanward. 
For  howsoever  wild  and  vexed  and  unrestrained  be 
the  youthful  flow  of  these  our  mountain  streams, 
one  and  all  alike  are  sure  in  time  to  reach  the  deep 
and  solemn  rest  of  the  great  sea. 

Search  the  world  over  and  you  will  find  no  land- 
scape scenery  to  surpass  these  valleys  which  open 
away  eastward  and  westward  from  the  Green  Mount- 
ains. The  one  we  were  in  was  like  many  others  I 
had  seen  that  spring,  only  these  three  grand  cas- 
cades at  the  head  gave  it  an  individuality  of  its 
own. 

On  the  lowland  near  the  junction  of  the  streams 
were  a  substantial  stone  house  and  a  group  of  large 
and  comfortable-looking  barns  and  smaller  build- 
ings. This  was  the  old  home  of  a  man  whom  the 
clergyman  described  as  a  noble  specimen  of  that 
humanity  of  which,  in  country  as  in  city,  noble 
specimens  are  rare  enough  to  be  conspicuous. 

"  He  feared  God,  but  feared  no  man,"  was  the 
summing-up  sentence  of  the  description.  He  was 
a  man  of  wide  influence,  honored,  respected,  and 
loved,  to  whom  for  a  half-century  the  old,  and  the 
young,  too,  had  gone  confidently  for  advice  and 
help  in  joy  and  in  trouble.  For  men  and  women 
need  advice  as  often  in  one  as  in  the  other.  It 
sometimes  happens,  in  a  community  like  this,  that 
one  man  holds  a  commanding  position.  If  he  holds 
it  steadily  for  a  long  time,  so  that  he  becomes  the 


THE  TRIUMPHANT   CHARIOT  79 

trusted  counsellor  and  confidential  friend  of  his 
neighbors,  of  all  kinds,  rich  and  poor,  it  is  always 
certain  that  that  man's  life  is  governed  by  devout 
Christian  principle.  Others  may  be  envied,  imi- 
tated ;  others  may  win  respect  and  admiration ;  but 
to  become  the  confidential  counsellor  of  all  classes 
and  ages,  to  be  trusted  with  the  troubles  and  in- 
vited into  the  happinesses  of  one's  neighbors,  it  is 
essential  to  be  loved  as  well  as  admired.  And  to 
be  loved  by  all  one  must  love  all,  not  the  good  only, 
but  the  bad  as  well.  And  there  never  was,  and 
never  will  be,  a  man  who  can  love  all  classes  of  his 
neighbors  and  win  their  love  in  return,  except  that 
man  have  taken  God  for  his  example,  whose  spirit 
he  has  to  some  extent  made  part  of  his  own.  Rea- 
son, philosophy,  experience,  all  affirm  this.  The 
idea  that  purity  and  peace,  gentleness  and  affection, 
belong  to  what  is  called  the  religion  of  humanity, 
is  disproved  in  the  history  of  every  nation,  every 
city,  every  village  and  country  community,  among 
all  peoples,  civilized  or  savage,  ancient  or  modem. 
There  is  no  more  exalted  position  among  men 
than  that  which  was  held  by  this  man,  growing  old 
among  the  people  who  loved  and  respected  him, 
doing  good  and  getting  good  in  every  year  of  his 
long  life.  The  world  in  which  he  lived  was  small, 
but  it  was  large  enough  to  occupy  the  energies  of 
any  mind,  however  able.  The  patriarchal  system 
has  never  been  improved  on  by  organizing  men 


8o        ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

into  nations.  One  man  in  a  country  town  can  be 
worth  as  much  to  his  age  and  to  future  ages,  work- 
ing at  home,  as  he  could  be  in  a  statesman's  chair. 
This  man  had  been  the  friend  and  counsellor  of 
statesmen.  No  one  can  measure  the  extent  of  his 
influence  for  good.  Its  limit  was  not  geographical, 
for  it  extended  far  beyond  the  boundaries  of  this 
small  globe. 

Much  the  clerg5nnan  told  me  of  the  personal  and 
direct  influence  his  old  parishioner  had  exerted  in 
the  town,  county,  and  State.  But  mostly  he  dwelt 
on  the  extreme  beauty  of  his  personal  character  and 
life,  the  delight  with  which  the  young  people  met 
him,  his  great  grace  of  manner  and  voice,  his  devout 
and  always  cheerful  bearing,  his  love  of  nature,  his 
keen  insight  into  character,  his  marvellous  breadth 
of  information  and  reading ;  and  lastly,  for  all  else 
was  prefatory  to  this,  he  told  me  of  the  picturesque 
death  of  his  old  parishioner,  counsellor,  father,  and 
friend. 

All  Friday  and  Saturday  a  north-east  storm  had 
raged  among  the  hills;  but  Sunday  morning  the 
clouds  went  away  before  a  stiff  westerly  breeze  and 
the  sun  poured  gold  into  the  valley.  The  church 
was  far  away  from  any  house — one  of  the  old  sites 
chosen  in  early  days  for  people  to  come  to  from 
various  valleys  and  hill-sides. 

The  man  who  had  charge  of  the  church  had  made 
a  fire  early  in  the  morning  before  he  recognized 


THE   TRIUMPHANT  CHARIOT  8 1 

the  fact  that  the  cold  storm  was  over.  Heavy  mists 
had  rushed  through  the  maples  until  nine  or  ten 
o'clock,  and  then  the  warm  fresh,  May  air  took  their 
place.  The  interior  of  the  church  was  not  pleasant. 
The  air  was  close.  Perhaps  for  the  first  time  in 
his  eighty  years  of  living,  the  Squire  (as  he  was 
called,  though  he  had  never  held  an  office)  became 
sensible  of  physical  suffering.  So  at  least  they 
supposed  who  saw  him  several  times  lift  his  hand 
to  his  head,  and  at  length  go  to  the  side  door  and 
open  it  a  little  way  and  sit  down  near  it.  After  a 
while,  to  tiie  surprise  of  all,  he  noiselessly  slipped 
out  of  the  door  and  did  not  come  back. 

And  now  for  the  rest  of  the  clergyman's  story  you 
will  have  to  depend  on  imagination,  or  what  we 
may  intelligently  believe  who  know  and  share  the 
faith  of  the  old  man ;  for  there  was  no  one  out- 
side of  the  church  to  see  him  until  all  the  people 
came  out  and  saw  him. 

He  sought  the  fresh  air  of  the  May  morning. 
There  was  not  enough  of  it  among  the  maples ;  and 
perhaps  he  sought  the  sunshine  with  it.  So  he 
walked  out  of  the  grove  towards  the  road -side, 
where  his  son  -  in  -  law,  coming  late  and  after  the 
sheds  were  all  occupied,  had  left  his  low  carriage 
standing  while  he  unhitched  the  traces  and  tied  the 
horses  in  the  grove.  The  empty  carriage  faced 
the  south ;  it  was  on  the  open  green,  and  sitting 
in  it  one  could  see  a  vast  prospect  up  and  down 
6 


8a  ALONG   NEW   ENGLAND   ROADS 

and  across  the  valley.  The  sun  shone  in  it  and 
the  wind  blew  over  it.  The  old  man  took  a  seat 
in  it,  and  before  him  lay  the  country  in  which  he 
had  lived  and  been  loved,  and  far  away  yonder 
down  the  valley  was  a  range  of  blue  hills,  beyond 
which  was  all  the  world  and  all  the  universe. 

Thus  far  all  this  was  a  very  simple  and  common- 
place incident.  Yes,  but  what  seems  the  simple 
and  commonplace  may,  by  reason  of  what  shall 
come  next,  be  in  reality  the  unintelligible  and  sub- 
lime. The  old  man  had  always  lived  close  to  an- 
other world.  Many  very  dear  ones  had  gone  to  it, 
and  he  had  never  ceased  to  regard  them  as  living 
near  him,  nearer  than  if  they  lived  in  the  flesh  be- 
yond those  blue  mountains.  He  never  thought  of 
doubting  the  reality  of  their  life.  He  never  argued 
about  it,  for  his  faith  was  above  reason.  Out  of 
the  church  came  the  sound  of  the  people's  voices 
singing,  and  to  him  it  seemed  as  if  the  people  who 
were  under  the  grass  behind  the  church  as  well  as 
they  who  were  in  the  church  were  together  prais- 
ing God ;  for  he  was,  whether  he  knew  it  or  not, 
very  near  if  not  indeed  on  the  ground  where  one 
may  hear  the  voices  of  both  worlds.  So  he  leaned 
back  and  looked  off  and  listened,  and  the  wind 
played  with  his  white  hair ;  for  he  had  left  his  hat 
in  the  church  and  sat  bareheaded  in  the  breeze 
and  sunshine.  Around  him  and  above  and  in  the 
valley  and  across  on  the  other  mountain-side  be- 


THE   TRIUMPHANT   CHARIOT  8 J 

gan  to  gather  appearances,  if  they  were  not  reali- 
ties. And  who  can  say  they  were  not  realities? 
The  white  mists  that  were  passing  here  and  there 
among  the  trees  near  the  summits,  the  snowy  cata- 
racts descending  and  shouting  as  they  descended — 
were  they  water-falls  and  mountain-mists,  or  were 
they  white  garments  ?  To  your  eye  or  mine  they 
were  the  remains  of  last  night's  gloom  and  tempest ; 
but  what  were  they  to  his  eyes,  looking  now  through 
all  things  which  stop  our  vision  into  the  fathomless 
depths  which  lie  beyond?  To  you  or  to  me  that 
tumultuous  roar  of  the  torrent  was  only  the  sound 
of  many  waters,  the  roar  of  streams  filled  full  with 
heavy  rains.  So,  perhaps,  it  was  to  him  when  he 
came  out  and  climbed  feebly  into  the  carriage ;  but 
after  a  little  there  is  small  doubt  that  he  heard  the 
sounds  of  other  waters  falling  from  other  hills  into 
other  valleys,  the  rivers  with  whose  cadences  our 
rivers  keep  some  though  faint  and  stammering 
harmonies.  For  all  voices  of  winds  and  water-falls 
on  earth — howsoever  profane  be  the  voices  of  men 
— all  musical  and  melodious  sounds  of  nature  are 
part  of  the  eternal  song,  and  we  should  recognize 
it  if  we  understood  that  music,  as,  perhaps,  some 
time  we  may.  Doubtless  he  heard,  and  though  yet 
a  man  old  and  very  feeble,  began  to  understand 
the  language  in  which  the  universe  sounds  its  joy 
and  praise.  For  the  bright  look  that  rested  on  his 
human  face  bore  witness  that  before  it  became 


84        ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

mere  dead  dust  it  had  heard  the  sounds  and  seen 
the  forms  of  another  world.  How  long  he  sat  there 
and  looked  and  listened  from  the  hill-side  no  one 
knows.  Perhaps  it  was  to  the  close  of  the  service 
in  the  church.  And  when  he  heard  the  sound  of 
the  organ,  and  the  voices  of  the  people  singing 
"  Holy,  holy,  holy,"  the  voices  of  the  wind  in  the 
trees,  and  the  voices  of  the  waters  thundering  down 
the  mountain,  and  the  voices  of  the  innumerable 
host  whom  we  never  hear  except  when,  like  him,  we 
come  to  the  entrance  of  the  other  existence,  all 
together  sounded  through  earth  and  heaven,  and 
he  heard  them  all;  and  hearing,  joined  in  the  an- 
them with  them. 

When  the  people  came  out  of  church  they  saw 
him  sitting  on  the  back  seat  of  the  carriage,  his 
white  hair  fluttering  in  the  wind,  his  hands  folded 
on  his  lap,  his  eyes  apparently  looking  across  the 
valley  at  the  opposite  hill-side.  A  half-dozen  peo- 
ple went  to  ask  him  if  he  was  sick.  They  found 
him  quite  well ;  better  than  he  had  ever  been.  It 
was  not  ^  triumphal  car,  nor  a  chariot  of  fire ;  but 
he  had  gotten  into  it  to  go  a  short  journey,  and  had 
gone,  safely,  happily. 


A  DEAD   LETTER 

One  evening  in  May,  many  years  ago,  a  man  of 
an  uncertain  age,  forty  or  fifty  years  old,  perhaps, 
walked  with  a  steady  purposeful  stride  on  this  long 
road  which  leads  winding  through  the  primeval  for- 
ests up  the  valley  to  a  little  settlement  by  a  lake 
among  the  mountains.  He  carried  nothing.  He 
was  a  stranger.  As  now  and  then  he  passed  a  house 
the  people  wondered,  and  asked  one  another  who 
he  was.  He  reached  the  old  church  which  stood 
at  a  crossing  of  the  roads,  the  one  going  on  up  the 
valley,  the  other  leading  to  right  and  to  left  over 
the  hills.  The  minister's  house  was  on  the  corner 
opposite  to  the  church.  The  minister,  a  man  in 
the  prime  of  life,  stood  on  the  green  in  front  of  the 
church,  looking  over  the  stone-wall  into  the  grave- 
yard. He  was  thinking  how  many  joys  and  pains, 
virtues  and  sins,  were  hidden  there.  He  turned  and 
saw  the  stranger  striding  towards  him,  and  greeted 
him  with  a  pleasant  "  Good-evening."  The  reply 
was  not  gruff,  but  short  in  tone,  "  Good  -  evening," 
and  the  man  walked  on ;  but  his  eye  caught  the 


86         ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

horse -sheds  in  the  rear  of  the  church,  and  he 
stopped  short,  then  sat  down  on  the  door-step. 

The  minister  strolled  towards  him  and  asked  him 
if  he  was  going  to  the  village.  *'  Not  to-night,"  was 
the  curt,  trisyllabic  answer.  The  minister  was  a 
man  of  much  experience.  He  saw  that  there  was 
here  something  out  of  the  common  run  of  human- 
ity in  that  neighborhood.  "  If  you  are  not  going 
farther  you  will  want  a  night's  shelter,  unless  you 
are  going  back  again." 

"  I  s'pose  there's  no  objection  to  my  sleepin'  in 
one  of  them  sheds." 

"  My  house,  over  there,  is  more  comfortable ; 
come  over  with  me  and  get  your  supper,  and  I'll 
give  you  a  bed." 

"  I'm  grateful  for  your  offer,  but  I'd  ruther  sleep 
in  the  shed,  and  I  don't  need  supper." 

The  minister  urged  his  invitation,  but  could  get 
no  reply.  The  stranger  sat  silent,  not  even  looking 
up  or  answering  with  his  eyes.  At  last  the  minis- 
ter gave  him  up  and  went  home.  He  looked  out  in 
the  twilight  frequently,  and  saw  the  man  sitting  on 
the  door-step.  He  went  over  and  tried  him  again 
with  pressure,  but  received  no  response.  He  some- 
how conceived  the  idea  that  the  language  used  by 
the  queer  man  was  affected,  and  not  natural ;  that 
he  assumed  to  be  what  he  was  not,  an  uneducated 
man.  Perhaps  it  was  so,  perhaps  not ;  no  one  ever 
knew.     For  many  years   after  that  the  stranger 


A   DEAD   LETTER  87 

lived  in  the  valley,  became  one  of  the  valley  people, 
was  known  to  every  one,  spoke  to  few,  and  used 
very  brief  sentences  in  such  conversation  as  was 
necessary.  He  bought  a  tract  of  land,  it  could  not 
be  called  a  farm,  lying  on  the  side  of  the  mountain 
and  including  a  few  acres  of  bottom  land  on  the 
river.  There  were  100  acres  in  the  tract,  and  he 
paid  cash  in  bank  notes,  $80,  for  it.  When  the 
deed  was  made  out,  the  village  justice,  who  was  a 
land-agent,  asked  him  his  name.  He  gave  it 
promptly — Ben  Layton.  He  built  a  log -house  on 
his  land.  The  people,  not  an  aesthetic  community, 
laughed  at  his  selection  of  a  site.  It  was  up  the 
mountain-side,  on  a  projecting  knoll,  the  front  of 
which  was  a  rocky  precipice.  The  cabin  stood  in 
the  edge  of  the  forest.  In  front  of  it  the  ridge  of 
the  knoll  was  covered  with  low  brush,  mostly  huckle- 
berry bushes.  A  mountain  stream  came  down  a 
ravine  behind  the  cabin  and  descended  swiftly  at 
one  side  of  the  knoll.  A  rough  pathway,  in  time 
worn  by  his  use,  led  from  the  cabin  across  the 
brook  and  down  by  the  watercourse  to  the  few 
acres  of  meadow-land  on  the  river  bottom.  A  for- 
est road,  little  else  than  a  logging  road,  among 
rocks  and  stumps,  went  from  the  meadow  down 
two  miles  to  the  main  road  up  the  valley.  From 
below  you  could  see  the  cliff,  and  the  low  bushes 
covering  the  ridge,  and  the  dark  forest  from  which 
it  projected,  but  you  could  not  see  the  little  cabin 


88         ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

which  Stood  under  the  trees.  From  the  cabin  door 
the  view  was  one  of  unsurpassed  beauty.  The  val- 
ley beneath,  widening  to  hold  a  lovely  lake  two 
miles  long,  closing  again  where  the  mill  and  the 
store  and  the  post-office  and  the  half-dozen  houses 
formed  "the  village," widened  again  beyond  to  the 
level  where  the  church  stood,  and  then  went  down- 
ward into  immeasurable  distance.  The  door  opened 
to  the  west.  When  the  sun  was  setting  in  June 
and  July  it  went  down  in  that  remote  distance,  and 
the  glory  that  filled  the  valley  was  like  the  light 
coming  earthward  from  the  celestial  city. 

Years  went  on.  At  first  there  was  much  curios- 
ity about  this  strange  arrival ;  but  it  passed.  He 
became  a  recognized  inhabitant.  His  strange  char- 
acter was  more  a  matter  of  imagination  than  of 
known  fact;  for  he  seldom  spoke  to  any  one,  and 
in  those  brief  sentences  which  were  necessary  to 
his  procuring  the  means  of  life  he  spoke  as  sensibly 
as  any  man  in  the  valley.  Oddly  enough,  he  would 
sometimes  exchange  some  little  talk  about  the 
weather,  or  his  health,  or  other  commonplace  sub- 
ject, with  the  minister,  but  with  no  one  else.  And 
the  minister  was  the  only  man  who  ever  went  twice 
to  the  cabin  on  the  cliff.  He  had  a  settled  convic- 
tion that  this  man  had  a  soul,  not  disturbed  by  any 
errancy  of  faculty,  which  was  worth  looking  after. 
And  he  looked  after  it  for  thirty  or  more  years,  buf 
confessed  in  the  end  that  he  had  never  found  it. 


A   DEAD   LETTER  89 

To  the  people  the  cabin  was  simply  "  Ben's  cab- 
in," and  as  years  went  along  and  young  people  came 
to  exist  who  had  not  been  there  when  he  arrived, 
a  stranger,  he  became  Old  Ben,  a  harmless  semi- 
lunatic,  who  raised  potatoes  on  his  bottom-land, 
killed  and  ate  woodchucks  and  all  kinds  of  beasts 
of  the  field  and  forest,  fished  a  great  deal,  but  most- 
ly wandered  around  in  the  woods  and  along  the 
streams,  silent  and  thoughtless. 

Was  he  without  thought  ?  Who  knows  ?  Some- 
where in  the  world  perhaps  there  was  one,  perhaps 
there  were  many,  who  could  have  told  what  Ben 
had  to  think  about.  No  one  in  the  valley  knew. 
He  never  read  a  newspaper  or  a  book,  never  went 
to  a  public  gathering,  never  voted,  never  was  seen 
at  church.  He  grew  old.  The  minister  grew  old. 
All  the  people  were  growing  older,  many  very  old, 
as  is  the  custom  in  city  and  country  with  all  our 
family  of  man. 

It  was  six  o'clock  of  a  July  evening.  A  group  of 
a  dozen  or  more  men  stood  on  the  porch  of  the 
store  wherein  was  the  post-office.  The  semi-weekly 
mail  had  arrived,  and  this  group  was  regular  at  that 
hour.  The  minister  sat  in  his  low  buggy  under  the 
shadow  of  a  great  Balm  of  Gilead-tree.  The  doctor 
drove  up  in  his  buckboard  and  stopped  by  the  side 
of  the  minister.  This  was  the  time  when  the  group 
at  the  post-office  exchanged  the  news  of  the  neigh- 
borhood, which  meant  a  section  of  country  three 


QO         ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

miles  down  and  five  miles  up  the  valley,  and  includ- 
ed scattered  clearings  on  the  hills.  The  doctor, 
when  he  happened  to  be  there,  answered  questions 
about  the  sick,  and  the  intelligence  he  gave  was 
carried  in  various  directions,  radiating  to  outlying 
homes,  where  all  were  sincerely  interested  in  it. 

"Doctor,"  said  a  man  whose  home  was  three 
miles  away,  "  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  somethin's  the 
matter  o'  Old  Ben.  I  ain't  seen  him  now  it's  a 
week  or  more,  and  I  ain't  seen  smoke  coming  out 
of  his  chimeney  for  two  days." 

"  Why  haven't  you  gone  up  to  see  him  ?" 

"  Wall,  it's  somethin'  of  a  climb,  and  a  long  way 
around,  and  Ben  don't  like  company,  and  I've  been 
purty  busy  hoein'  potatoes,  and  I  thought  o'  goin' 
up  to-morrow." 

"  You  might  better  have  gone  up  to-night  instead 
of  coming  down  here.  Does  any  one  know  whether 
Ben  has  been  down  the  valley  lately  ?" 

"  I  seen  him,  lemme  see — it  was  Monday  a  week 
ago — he  was  fishin'  on  the  big  rock.  Hain't  any  of 
you  fellows  seen  him  sence  then  ?"  While  they 
were,  one  and  another,  saying  "  No"  to  this  query, 
the  postmaster  came  to  the  door  with  a  letter  in 
his  hand. 

"  Here's  a  letter  for  Old  Ben.  What  had  I  better 
do  with  it  ?"  The  people  closed  around  the  post- 
master. Here  was  an  incident.  A  letter  to  any 
one  of  them  would  have  been  a  matter  of  general 


A  DEAD   LETTER  91 

interest,  but  a  letter  to  Old  Ben  was  a  startling 
fact. 

"  It's  come  at  last,"  said  one. 

"  Yes,  it's  come  at  last,"  said  another  and  an- 
other. 

"As  long  as  I've  been  postmaster — and  that's 
been  how  many  years,  boys  ? — as  long  as  I  can  re- 
member, Ben  has  come  every  Saturday  and  asked 
if  there  was  a  letter  for  him.  Sometimes  he  came 
twice  a  week,  sometimes  every  day  for  a  while. 
There  ought  to  be  something  important  in  it,  and 
he  hasn't  been  here  now  for  more  than  a  week. 
He's  been  waiting  more  than  twenty  years  for  that 
letter,  and  it's  come  at  last." 

This  constant  application  of  Old  Ben  for  a  letter, 
persistent,  though  vain,  for  months  and  years,  was 
a  known  fact  to  all  the  people ;  but  it  had  long  been 
set  down  as  only  another  indication  of  his  lunacy. 
Before  sunset  pretty  much  every  family  in  the  valley 
was  talking  about  it,  and  saying,  *'  Old  Ben's  letter 
has  come  at  last." 

The  letter  passed  from  hand  to  hand ;  one  and 
another  wondered  who  had  written  it.  The  minis- 
ter and  the  doctor  were  conversing  and  had  not 
heard  the  postmaster's  questions.  But  they  were 
talking  about  Ben.  When  the  postmaster  repeated 
his  inquiry,  the  minister  said  : 

"  Give  me  the  letter.  I  will  take  it  to  him.  I  am 
going  out  to  see  him." 


9«        ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

The  sun  was  just  above  the  far  horizon  when 
the  minister  reached  the  end  of  the  narrow  rocky 
road  on  the  bottom-land,  and  tied  his  horse  under 
a  rude  cow-shed  near  the  bars  of  the  pasture  lot. 
It  was  a  good  half-mile  from  this  point,  by  the  wild 
path  up  the  side  of  a  brawling  stream,  through 
primeval  forest,  to  the  level  of  Ben's  cabin.  The 
minister  knew  his  way.  He  had  been  at  Ben's 
cabin  not  a  few  times.  There  was  no  house  or 
cabin  or  habitation  of  man  within  many  miles  that 
he  had  not  visited  often.  But  he  had  never  been 
here  at  this  hour.  The  sun  had  gone.  A  mass 
of  clouds  hung  across  the  valley  from  mountain  to 
mountain,  and  all  were  aglow  with  crimson  light. 
The  country  below  the  arch  of  fire  was  lit  with  a 
golden  lustre  which  came  flooding  up  the  valley 
from  the  clear  sky  on  the  horizon.  Above  all  was 
crimson,  below  all  was  gold.  Turning  his  back  to 
the  miraculous  view,  the  minister  struck  the  cabin 
door  with  his  knuckles  two  or  three  times  and 
waited.  A  robin  in  a  tree  near  by  sang  out  boldly. 
A  thrush  poured  forth  a  flood  of  melody,  and  an- 
other lower  down  the  hill  answered  him.  No  sound 
'  came  from  within  the  cabin.  The  minister  knocked 
again  and  waited.  While  he  was  waiting  he  heard 
a  step,  and  turning  saw  the  doctor  coming  along 
the  path  around  the  corner  of  the  cabin.  He  was 
not  surprised.  They  two  were  in  the  habit  of  meet- 
ing on  such  errands  at  all  hours  of  the  day  and  night. 


A   DEAD    LETTER  93 

They  went  into  the  cabin.  It  was  only  one  room, 
eighteen  or  twenty  feet  long  and  fifteen  wide.  All 
of  one  end  was  occupied  by  the  heap  of  rough 
stone  which  formed  the  chimney.  Along  the  side 
was  a  low,  broad  bench,  which  did  duty  for  a  bed. 
There  was  little  furniture,  but  everything  in  the 
room  was  clean  and  neat.  In,  or  on,  the  bed  lay 
the  tall  form  of  a  man,  motionless.  As  the  two 
approached  him  he  made  no  sign.  His  eyes  were 
open. 

"  Is  he  dead  ?"  asked  the  minister.  The  doctor 
laid  his  hand  on  the  man's  forehead,  and  answered : 

"  No,  he  is  living  yet ;  but,"  he  added,  after  a 
little,  "  he  is  near  the  end." 

The  same  thought  was  in  the  minds  of  the  two 
who  sat  by  the  side  of  the  bed  :  "  Who  is  this  man 
that  lies  here  dying  alone  in  the  forest?"  They 
had  time  to  think,  for  the  twilight  passed  into 
night,  and  dark  night,  with  clouds  and  rising  wind, 
and  the  trees  began  to  utter  strange  sounds,  but 
there  was  no  sound  from  the  lips  of  Old  Ben.  A 
whippoorwill  suddenly  called  with  his  clear,  rich 
voice  from  the  peak  of  the  cabin,  and  a  dozen  or 
more  answered  from  the  woods  below.  The  sounds 
of  nature  are  innumerable  in  the  night-time  in  still 
weather,  and  when  the  wind  blows  the  forest  is 
filled  with  voices  in  a  thousand  tones.  Some  are  syl- 
labic utterances,  shouts,  calls,  and  answers ;  others, 
long  notes  of  delight  or  of  pain.     It  made  the  si- 


94        ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

lence  of  the  cabin  most  solemn  and  impressive  to 
hear  the  turmoil  and  tumult  in  the  outer  world. 
And  it  was  the  more  oppressive  to  the  two  watchers 
in  that  he  who  lay  there  dying  held  a  secret  on 
which  the  silence  seemed  to  be  placing  a  great 
black  seal ;  for,  to  say  truth,  they  had  within  the 
past  thirty  years  asked  each  other  countless  times, 
"  Who  is  Old  Ben  ?"  To  the  people  not  given  to 
much  thought  the  question  had  long  since  lost  in- 
terest. To  them,  reading,  scholarly  men,  it  had 
continuous  and  increasing  attraction  as  an  unsolved 
problem.  They  asked  it  now,  one  of  the  other, 
with  their  eyes. 

"  He  will  never  get  his  letter  after  all,"  said  the 
doctor,  in  a  low  voice. 

*'  What  letter  ?"  The  words  came  from  the  lips 
of  the  motionless  man.  Then  a  sudden  flash  of 
light  illumined  his  face.  They  bent  over  him. 
"  What  letter  ?"  he  said  again.  "  Is  there  a  letter 
for  me  ?" 

"  Give  it  to  him,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  Yes,  Ben,  I  have  a  letter  for  you.  It  came  by 
the  mail  to-night." 

"Give  it  to  me,  quick,  quick,  dominie,  for  she 
said — she  said — ;"  he  tried  to  lift  his  hand,  but 
failed.  The  light  on  his  face  became  white,  cold. 
After  a  while  the  light  reappeared  in  his  eyes. 
"  The  letter — she  said — "  he  was  murmuring  rather 
than  speaking,  and  they  could  hear  no  more,  for  the 


A    DEAD    LETTER  95 

wind  thundered  and  the  trees  wailed  and  sobbed 
and  shrieked.  For  one  instant  his  eyes  seized  and 
devoured  the  letter  which  the  minister  held  in  his 
hand,  but  he  was  powerless  to  take  it ;  and  a  few 
moments  later  the  end  came,  and  he  was  dead. 

Their  work  was  done.  They  lit  their  lanterns 
and  went  out,  leaving  the  mystery  behind  them. 
The  forest  was  never  so  black  as  in  the  contrast 
with  their  lights.  The  brook  was  a  torrent,  for 
heavy  showers  had  been  passing  over.  Even  now, 
as  they  went  cautiously  down  the  narrow  footway, 
they  paused  several  times  to  listen  to  the  reverber- 
ation of  heavy  thunder,  or  to  recover  eyesight  lost 
in  the  dazzling  brilliance  of  lightning. 

"  He  never  got  the  letter  after  all,"  said  the  min- 
ister, as  they  reached  the  low  cow-shed  under  which 
they  had  left  their  horses.  "  What  shall  we  do  with 
it?" 

In  that  part  of  the  country  in  those  days  there 
was  small  thought  or  knowledge  of  the  laws  of  in- 
heritance. The  public  administrator  was  unknown. 
The  people  buried  Ben.  When  they  brought  him 
out  of  the  cabin  they  left  the  door  open.  There 
was  nothing  in  it  which  any  one  wanted  to  steal, 
and  there  was  no  one  who  had  any  interest  in  pre- 
serving it. 

The  minister  carried  the  letter  back  to  the  post- 
master. It  lay  a  long  time  in  his  office,  and  again 
and   again  was  brought  out  and   handed  around 


gS  ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

among  the  people.  It  was  the  central  point  of  in- 
terest in  that  valley  for  months — a  small  folded  bit 
of  paper,  concerning  which  every  man  and  woman 
within  five  miles  of  the  place  of  its  deposit  thought 
and  talked  and  guessed  and  wondered.  Then  it 
went  the  way  of  dead  letters. 


XI 

EPITAPHS  AND   NAMES 

The  frequency  and  the  various  conditions  of 
country  graveyards  form  a  feature  of  New  England 
landscape  scenery  peculiar  to  this  country.  You 
never  see  anything  like  it  in  any  other  country.  It 
is,  of  course,  common  enough  in  Europe  to  find  the 
old  church  surrounded  by  the  church-yard.  But 
our  graveyards  are  very  much  more  frequent  with- 
out than  with  churches,  or  any  buildings,  in  them ; 
and  churches  are  far  more  numerous  without  than 
with  graveyards  near  them. 

Most  of  the  country  graveyards  are  lonesome  and 
mournful-looking  places,  often  far  away  from  any 
houses,  frequently  showing  no  indications  of  care 
nor  any  footprints  of  visitors.  In  and  near  the 
large  villages  one  finds  very  beautiful  cemeteries, 
demonstrating  the  existence  of  reverence  for  the 
place  of  final  rest.  But  the  lonesome  burial-places 
that  I  pass  along  the  road  are  for  the  most  part 
open  fields,  with  waving  grass  and  golden-rod,  and 
often  thickets  of  brush,  but  without  trees.  This 
must  not,  however,  be  taken  as  evidence  of  forget- 
7 


98        ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

fulness  of  the  dead,  or  intentional  neglect  of  their 
graves.  It  proceeds  simply  from  the  fact  that  no 
one  has  suggested  to  the  people  the  idea  of  com- 
bining effort  to  make  the  graveyard  a  place  of 
beauty  as  well  as  of  repose.  It  is  in  fact  part  of 
that  lack  of  education  in  love  of  beauty  which  pre- 
vails among  laborious  communities,  with  whom  life 
is  a  very  constant  struggle,  whose  days  are  none 
too  long  for  the  earning  of  a  livelihood.  True,  it 
needs  but  an  instructor  to  teach  such  communities 
the  utility  and  money  value  of  beauty,  and  show 
how  the  labor  of  the  farm  may  produce  beauty  with 
profit.  Doubtless  after  some  more  generations  the 
education  will  come. 

Meantime  these  desolate -looking  burial-places 
contain  abundant  evidence  of  the  refinement  of 
mind  which  characterizes  the  country  population; 
the  deep  sentiment  which  in  human  history  accom- 
panies the  highest  civilization.  For  if  you  desire 
to  find  communities  in  the  largest  measure  com- 
posed of  true  gentlemen  and  gentlewomen,  you  are 
not  to  seek  them  in  cities,  nor  in  that  section  of 
city  population  sometimes  called  "society,"  but 
among  the  hills,  in  the  up-country,  where  lives  have 
grown  old  and  generations  have  succeeded  genera- 
tions, far  removed  from  the  ambitions,  the  rivalries, 
the  passionate  collisions  of  the  cities.  Here  are 
very  kindly  hearts,  rejoicing  in  one  another's  pros- 
perities, sympathetic  one  with  another's  troubles. 


EPITAPHS  AND   NAMES  99 

Here  slander  finds  no  encouragement  and  gossip 
has  no  life.  Here  no  one  tells  lies  about  another, 
man  or  woman,  and  when  men  or  women  sin,  as 
alas !  they  sometimes  do  everywhere,  others  do  not 
enjoy  talking  about  it,  but  are  sorry  and  silent. 

Doubtless  there  are  evil-minded  people  in  the 
country.  Their  number  is  increasing  as  railways 
bring  the  population  into  closer  contact  with  crowd- 
ed communities.  But  there  remain,  here  and  there, 
isolated  tracts  of  country  in  which  a  great  deal  of 
the  old  purity  of  life  and  whole-souled  love  of  neigh- 
bors yet  prevails.  If  you  know  what  that  means, 
what  it  was  a  few  years  ago  all  over  the  north 
country,  you  cannot  look  at  one  of  these  road-side 
graveyards  without  recalling  the  scene  which  has 
been  visible  here,  as  each  one  of  these  mounds  was 
heaped  up.  Then  all  the  people  from  miles  around 
came  to  the  funeral,  and  whether  it  were  old  man 
or  boy,  babe  girl  or  matron,  no  king  had  ever  more 
royal  burial,  for  none  was  ever  laid  in  vault  or 
ground  with  more  solemn,  loving,  lamenting  attend- 
ance. 

I  have  often  copied  and  printed  epitaphs  from 
these  graveyards,  which  however  rude  or  uncouth  in 
expression,  are  nevertheless  honest  epitaphs.  There 
is  no  introduction  of  the  rivalries  of  society  into 
these  cemeteries.  Simple,  unpretentious  headstones 
are  here,  only  intended  as  marks  of  the  separate 
graves,  and  the  inscriptions  are  in  plain  letters. 


lOO       ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

affectionate  memorials.  It  is  often  interesting  to 
see  how  frequently  in  the  same  graveyard  the  same 
epitaph  is  repeated.  When  first  put  on  a  stone  it 
has  attracted  the  eye  and  pleased  the  mind,  and  one 
and  another  has  adopted  it  as  just  the  expression 
of  his  or  her  feeling,  and  so  it  has  been  used  on 
stone  after  stone.  It  is  not  uncommon  to  find 
stones  which  may  indicate  either  the  lack  of  a 
stone-cutter  in  the  country,  or  the  poverty  which 
forbade  employing  one.  These  are  home-made 
stones,  and  in  their  rude  simplicity  they  are  very 
eloquent,  since  you  can  but  picture  to  yourself  the 
survivor,  in  a  solitary  home,  working  slowly  and 
patiently  to  carve  the  gravestone  of  the  lamented 
dead.  Here  is  an  example.  I  found  it  in  a  grave- 
yard in  the  western  part  of  the  town  of  Putney  in 
Vermont.  Type  will  not  reproduce  the  rudeness 
of  the  lettering,  but  will  exhibit  the  patience  of 
the  unskilled  fingers  which  cut  the  characters  deep 
in  red  sandstone: 

HER  ELI E 
S  T  H  E  R  E 
M  E  N  S  O  F 
MO'SESKE 
RRWHODIE 
DNOVEMBER 
THESIN1813 
AGED65 


EPITAPHS   AND   NAMES  101 

Aside  from  the  indications  of  human  emotion 
which  these  records  furnish  in  ancient  as  in  modern 
cemeteries,  they  contain  many  curiosities  of  litera- 
ture. 

Mistakes  in  spelling,  which  are  frequent,  are  of 
course  the  fault  of  the  stone-cutter.  It  certainly 
was  his  fault  in  the  case  of  a  stone  in  the  noble 
cemetery  at  Charlestown,  N.  H.,  whereon  the  in- 
scription was  clearly  not  intended  to  suggest  the 
penance  to  which  in  old  times  some  were  occasion- 
ally addicted.     The  epitaph  ends  thus : 

' '  His  wayes  were  wayes  of  pleasantness 
And  all  his  paths  were  pease." 

There  is  a  common  old  epitaph,  found  frequently 
in  graveyards  in  England  as  well  as  in  America,  in 
one  or  another  form.  In  that  same  graveyard  at 
Putney  I  found  it  in  this  form  : 

"  Behold  my  grave  as  you  pass  by 
As  you  are  liveing  so  once  was  I ; 
Death  suddenly  took  hold  on  me 
And  so  will  be  the  case  with  thee." 

In  a  graveyard  by  the  road-side  in  Charlemont, 
Mass.,  I  found  a  variation,  the  first  lines  being : 

"Come  all  young  people  as  you  pass  by, 
As  you  are  now  so,"  etc. 

In  that  Charlemont  burial-place  I  copied  from 


102        ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

the  grave  of  Mr.  Nathaniel  Upton,  who  died  in 
1829,  this  short,  sharp  statement : 

' '  Here  lies  my  friend 
Till  time  shall  end." 

Manchester  in  Vermont,  one  of  the  most  beauti- 
ful villages  in  the  world,  has  a  cemetery  which, 
like  the  village,  may  claim  superior  beauty  to  almost 
any  other  in  the  north  country.  Wandering  through 
it,  I  copied  this  inscription  from  a  stone  marking 
the  graves  of  three  children,  who  died  in  the  years 
1821, 1823,  and  1824: 

*'  Here  in  the  dust  3  babes  we 
Sleep  by  our  Father  here 

our  Mother  Brothers  » 

Sisters  dear  have  left  us 
alone  to  moulder 
here  " 

And  another,  over  a  young  wife,  only  eighteen 
years  old,  who  died  in  18 10. 

"  Mourn  not  for  me 
Wipe  off  the  crystal  tear 
Your  allotted  portion  be 
Like  mine  upon  a  bier. 
Go  search  the  earth  around 
Regard  well  your  behaveer 
To  Jesus  Christ  you're  bound 
He  is  your  only  Saviour." 

At  Fayetteville  in  Vermont  I  strolled  into  the 


EPITAPHS   AND   NAMES  IO3 

old  graveyard,  and  copied  here  and  there  an  in- 
scription. 

On  one  stone  I  found  this : 

"Now,  little  James  has  gone  to  rest 
With  Eliza  Ann  among  the  blest. 
Aside  by  side  their  bodies  lay. 
Till  the  great  resurrection  day." 

On  a  stone  by  the  side  of  the  above : 

' '  Oh,  little  Lavina  she  has  gone 
To  James  and  Charles  and  Eliza  Ann. 
Arm  in  arm  they  walk  above. 
Singing  the  Redeemer's  love." 

On  a  somewhat  large  monument  was  a  photo- 
graph, or  perhaps  it  was  a  daguerreotjrpe,  set  deep 
in  the  stone,  and  under  it  the  familiar  old  epitaph 
before  mentioned,  with,  however,  a  stanza  added 
which  I  do  not  remember  to  have  seen  elsewhere : 

"  Behold  my  friends  as  you  pass  by,"  etc. 

' '  What  thou  art  reading  o'er  my  bones 
I've  often  read  on  other  stones, 
And  others  soon  shall  read  of  thee 
What  thou  art  reading  now  of  me." 

There  is  a  quaint  force  in  this,  which  is  from  an 
1825  stone  at  Pittsfield,  N  H. : 

"  Ah  soon  we  must  persue 
This  soul  so  lately  (led 
And  soon  of  you  they  may  say  too 
Ah  such  an  one  is  dead." 


I04       ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

And  on  another  stone  in  the  same  yard  I  found 
this  brief  sentence : 

"Death  is  a  debt  to  nature  due 
I've  paid  the  debt,  and  so  must  you." 

Sometimes  I  find  hints  of  tragedies  or  romances 
in  the  quiet  up-country  lives  which  have  found 
final  peace  under  the  stones.  As  I  drove  by  a 
little  cemetery  in  Goshen,  I  stopped  the  horses 
and  read  from  the  carriage  an  inscription  which 
has  given  me  food  for  a  thousand  imaginings  since. 
I  wondered  what  could  have  been  the  story  of  that 
life  which  was  thus  published  on  the  road-side,  mani- 
festly with  intent  that  every  passer-by  should  read. 
I  even  had  the  curiosity  to  inquire,  but  found  no 
one  who  remembered  the  events  alluded  to.  It  was 
the  grave  of  a  girl  of  seventeen,  and  the  epitaph  was 

this: 

"Dearly  beloved  while  on  earth- 
Deeply  lamented  at  death — 
Borne  down  by  two  cruel  oppressors — 
Distracted  and  dead." 

Peace  be  with  the  child,  whoever  she  was  and 
whatever  her  sorrow !  It  was  a  lonely  graveyard, 
far  away  from  any  village,  and  not  near  any  house, 
but  there  was  a  goodly  company  of  the  sleepers 
near  her  on  the  hill-side  going  up  from  the  road, 
and  she  is  not  alone  in  her  rest,  and  will  not  be 
alone  in  the  morning. 


EPITAPHS   AND   NAMES  lO^ 

Sometimes  I  have  found  very  touching  evidences 
of  the  grief  that  comes  to  all  human  hearts  alike, 
in  city  and  country,  in  Christian  and  pagan  lands. 
There  is  an  affectation  of  sorrow  in  some  tombstone 
literature,  but  I  don't  think  any  one  will  imagine 
there  was  not  the  outburst  of  a  mother's  heart  in 
the  words  that  were  on  the  tombstone  of  the  child 
named  Coral.  She  was  but  fourteen  years  in  this 
country,  and  some  one — it  could  have  been  but  one 
— when  she  went  suddenly  away,  summed  up  her 
agony  in  the  words  on  the  stone,  "  My  dearest  love, 
my  dearest  love  !"  In  a  city  cemetery  we  do  not 
fancy  that  the  publication  of  one's  private  grief 
seems  in  good  taste  even  on  a  memorial  stone.  But 
no  one  can  find  fault  with  any  inscription  which 
bears  evidence  that  it  is  uttered,  not  to  the  living 
who  remain,  but  to  the  dead  loved  one  who  has 
gone  on.  Such  inscriptions  properly  dedicate  me- 
morial stones. 

Some  graveyards,  full  of  the  graves  of  the  old- 
time  folks,  are  abandoned  as  if  forgotten.  At  Fran- 
cestown,  N.  H.,  I  found  such  a  place.  The  stones 
were  lying  or  leaning  down  in  all  directions.  It 
was  difficult  to  read  the  inscriptions.  Brush  and 
weeds  concealed  graves  and  stones.  Here  are  some 
lines  from  the  headstone  of  Mr.  Isaac  Brewster,  who 
died  in  1782: 

"Happy  the  company  that's  gone 
From  cross  to  crown,  from  thrall  to  throne 


X06       ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

How  loud  they  sing  upon  the  shore 
To  which  they  sailed  in  heart  before." 

Driving  up  the  road  from  Keene,  N.  H.,  to  Drews- 
ville,  I  reached  a  little  road-side  inn  in  the  town  of 
Surry,  at  about  the  time  to  feed  my  horses.  As  I 
sat  on  the  front  steps  of  the  inn,  the  scene,  in  the 
noon  of  a  bright  October  day,  was  not  exhilarating. 
There  was  no  village.  Across  the  broad  road  was 
a  church.  The  front  platform  was  rotted,  and  the 
broken  plank,  some  standing  on  end,  made  it  un- 
necessary to  ask  if  it  was  abandoned.  There  was 
a  graveyard  a  little  way  from  it,  a  blacksmith's  shop, 
and  a  building,  half  town-hall  and  half  grocery-store, 
standing  between.  The  graveyard,  although  appar- 
ently not  in  use,  was  evidently  cared  for.  It  was 
neat  and  in  good  order.  Perhaps  the  church  is 
deserted  because  the  population  is  less.  Whatever 
be  the  reason,  I  have  rarely  found  a  country  grave- 
yard which  was  better  worth  visiting. 

There  was  a  very  large  group  of  graves  of  one 
family,  the  name  varying,  usually  Darte,  sometimes 
Dort,  sometimes  Dart,  and  among  them  Eli,  Elihu, 
and  Eliphalet.  One  of  the  little  girls  was  named 
Azubah.  Mr.  Nathaniel  Darte  died  long  ago  at  66. 
There  was  a  blank  on  the  stone  where  the  year  of 
his  death  should  have  been.     His  headstone  said : 

"Dear  friends  don't  mourn  for  me  nor  weep; 
I  am  not  dead,  but  here  do  sleep. 


EPITAPHS  AND   NAMES  1 07 

And  here  I  must  and  shall  remain 
Till  Christ  does  raise  me  up  again." 

Doubtless  he  was  a  resolute  man,  in  death  as  in 
life.  Mrs.  Deborah  Darte,  his  wife,  died  in  1773, 
only  twenty-eight  years  old.     She  says  : 

' '  Friends  retire  ;  prepared  be 
When  God  shall  call  to  follow  me." 

When  Mrs.  Darte  died  she  left  two  little  daugh- 
ters, Avis  and  Eunice.  This  we  know  from  their 
graves,  close  by.  They  both  grew  up.  Avis  married 
Asa  Holmes,  and  in  1791,  a  young  wife  in  her  twen- 
ty-second year,  "fell  a  victim  to  death."  The  er- 
rors in  spelling  on  her  tombstone  must  be  charged 
to  the  stone-cutter  of  the  day.   This  is  the  epitaph : 

"Altho'  I  sleep  in  death  awhile, 
Beneath  this  barron  sod, 
Ere  long  I  hope  to  rise  and  smile, 
To  meet  my  savour  God." 

Little  Avis  and  Eunice  grew  to  womanhood  dur- 
ing the  trying  times  of  the  Revolutionary  War,  but 
did  not  live  to  see  the  good  times  of  this  nineteenth 
century.  For  Eunice,  who  was  only  two  years  old 
when  her  mother  died,  Avis  being  four,  died  unmar- 
ried a  few  months  after  her  sister  in  1791,  in  her 
twentieth  year.  Mrs.  Eunice  the  headstone  calls  her, 
that  is.  Mistress  Eunice.  I  fancy  she  had  received 
this  title,  given  in  those  days  to  maiden  ladies,  but 


Io8  ALONG  NEW   ENGLAND  ROADS 

not  often  to  those  as  young  as  she,  because  she  had 
become  the  head  of  her  surviving  father's  house- 
hold. She  was  doubtless  a  fair  New  England  maid- 
en, lovely  and  loved.  Was  it  a  lover  who  called  her 
"  friend,"  in  her  epitaph  ?  Or  was  it  her  father  ? 
For  as  we  will  see  presently  the  word  "  friend  "  had 
endearing  associations  in  that  locality,  and  a  father 
might  apply  it  to  a  daughter  or  a  husband  to  a  wife, 
according  to  modern  French  usage.  Here  is  her 
epitaph,  literally : 

"  Stop  gentle  youth  and  drop  a  tear, 
For  my  true  friend  lies  buried  here. 
She  once  was  innacently  gay, 
But  now  a  lifeless  lump  of  clay. 
Then  pity  my  sad  overthrow, 
Nor  set  your  heart  on  things  below." 

When  Ruel  Mack  died  in  i8 12  he  left  this  assur- 
ance, as  we  find  it  carved  over  him : 

"Mourn  not  for  me,  nor  thus  reflect. 
But  all  your  sighs  and  tears  suppress. 
Since  God  has  promised  to  protect 
The  widow  and  the  fatherless." 

Mr.  Woolston  Brockway,  who  died  in  1789,  in  the 
seventy  -  eighth  year  of  his  age,  was  verily  one  of 
the  New  Hampshire  fathers.  The  stone  record 
says :  "  He  left  a  widow  and  eighty-seven  children, 
grand  and  great-grandchildren."  Of  John  Brock- 
way,  who  died  in  1 799,  it  is  said  : 


EPITAPHS   AND   NAMES  IO9 

"  He  lived  a  friend  to  all  mankind 
And  died  in  hopeful  peace  of  mind." 

On  the  headstone  of  Mrs.  Lucina  Willcox,  who 
died  in  1800,  is  a  version  of  a  familiar  old  epitaph, 
before  mentioned,  whose  peculiarity  I  italicize  : 

"Death  is  a  debt  by  nature  due, 
Vve  paid  my  shot  and  so  must  you. " 

Theodosha,  wife  of  Edmund  Wetherbee,  died  in 
1806  at  twenty-one  years  of  age,  and  her  husband 
thus  laments : 

' '  Why  do  I  mourn  beneath  the  cross  ? 
Why  do  I  thus  repine 
If  God  be  pleased  to  take  away 
A  lovely  friend  of  mine." 

In  1802,  when  Benjamin  Isham  was  laid  in  the 
ground,  they  carved  this  over  him  : 

"Pray  don't  lement  when  death  is  sent. 

Nor  fill  a  watery  eye  ; 
It  was  decreed  to  Adam's  seed 
All  that  are  bom  must  die." 

John  Marvin  went  away  triumphantly  in  1807,  a 
soldier  of  the  church  militant  who  fell  in  the  battle. 
There  is  the  ring  of  a  clarion  in  his  epitaph.  If  you 
do  not  think  so,  go  and  read  it  as  I  read  it  in  a 
golden  October  day,  with  a  north-west  wind  rush- 
ing over  the  hills  and  sweeping  the  yellow  maple- 
leaves  in  wild  and  musical  whirls  around  you  in 


no  ALONG  NEW   ENGLAND  ROADS 

that  Otherwise  silent  burial-place,  while  above  you 
is  the  blue  sky  into  which  so  many  have  looked 
from  these  hills  and  valleys,  and  looking  have  gone 
to  meet  their  leader  : 

"Death,  thou  hast  conquered  me — 
I,  by  thy  darts,  am  slain  ; 
But  Christ  has  conquered  thee. 
And  I  shall  rise  again." 

I  lingered  two  hours  in  this  lonesome  burial-place, 
copying  quaint  epitaphs :  those  of  the  Reverend 
Zebulon  Streeter  and  Tabitha,  his  consort,  who  died 
in  the  early  part  of  the  century,  of  Abia  Grain,  of 
Colonel  William  Bond,  of  Simon  Baxter,  and  a  num- 
ber more  which  are  in  my  note-book.  Let  it  suffice 
to  add  only  that  of  Mr.  John  Redding,  who  died  in 
1814.     It  is  very  homely : 

' '  The  widow  mourns  the  loss  of  a  husband  near. 
The  children  of  a  parent  dear ; 
But  still  one  comfort  does  remain, 
The  hopes  that  our  loss  is  his  infinite  gain." 

As  I  was  coming  out  of  the  ground  I  was  startled 
at  sight  of  a  tall,  white  stone,  and  the  legend,  "  Ich- 
abod  Grain  died  Oct,  14,  1866,  ae.  82  years  and  10 
months."  The  spelling  was  not  that  of  Geoffrey 
Grayon,  but  by  the  side  of  this  stone  was  another, 
whereon  I  read :  "  Fanny,  wife  of  Ichabod  Grane, 
died  March  22,  1842,  ae.  53." 


EPITAPHS   AND    NAMES  III 

There  is  an  interesting  old  cemetery  at  Norwich 
in  Vermont,  where  I  passed  a  rainy  Sunday. 

The  stones  of  a  hundred  and  more  years  ago  are 
going  rapidly  to  decay;  many  inscriptions  are  al- 
ready lost  past  all  recovery ;  parts  of  others  are 
gone.  I  hope  there  is  a  local  historical  or  other 
society  which  has  preserved  accurate  copies  of 
these  old  records.  They  will  always  be  of  inesti- 
mable value,  not  alone  to  descendants  of  those  who 
lie  here,  but  to  local  and  general  historians. 

It  was  raining,  and  the  yellow  grass  was  high 
and  wet ;  but  I  forgot  the  dismal  weather  as  I  went 
on  from  one  to  another  old  stone,  and  kneeling  in 
the  grass  studied  out,  sometimes  copying,  the  in- 
scriptions. I  found  several  names  of  women,  un- 
common though  none  entirely  new  to  me,  such  as 
Mindwell,  Thankful,  Salla,  Alba,  Candace. 

Here  is  an  inscription  from  an  old  stone : 

*'  In  memory  of  Mr.  Nathaniel  Hatch  who  died  with  the 
small  pox  at  Charlestown  N.  H.  July  3,  1776  aged  (blank) 
years.  His  bones  were  accidentally  found  in  18 10  by  men  to 
work  on  a  turnpike  between  Charlestown  and  Walpole  and 
deposited  at  this  place  by  the  desire  of  his  son  Oliver  Hatch 
of  this  town. 

Let  not  the  dead  forgotten  lie 

Lest  men  forgit  that  they  must  die." 

That  stone  speaks  of  the  terror  which  accompa- 
nied the  disease  when  it  appeared  at  Number  Four 
(the  ancient  name  of  Charlestown),  the  hasty,  un- 


112  ALONG   NEW    ENGLAND   ROADS 

marked  burial,  not  in  the  general  graveyard.  It 
may  suggest,  too,  that  Americans  had  many  sub- 
jects of  personal  thought  and  work  and  worry  on 
the  4th  of  July,  1776. 

The  small  stone  at  the  grave  of  Mariah  Hatch, 
who  died  in  1802,  after  living  five  weeks,  gave  op- 
portunity to  some  one  to  defy  orthography  and  or- 
thodoxy and  the  doctrine  of  original  sin,  in  this  epi- 
taph: 

"  Beneth  a  sleeping  infant  lies 
To  earth  her  body's  lent, 
More  glorious  she'll  hereafter  rise 
Though  not  more  inocent." 

The  freedom  of  the  country  stone-cutter  from  all 
laws  of  calligraphy  and  orthography  is  exhibited  in 
an  inscription  which  I  copy  line  for  line  : 

"  In  memory  of  Mrs  Susannah 
wife  of  Ensign  Elisha  Burton 
who  died  in  full  assurance 
of  a  Beter  life  April  27  1775 
in  ye  23d  Year  of  her  Age  she 
was  an  Obliging  wife  a  tender  • 

Mother  &  a  Sincear'Christion 
born  From  above  she  paied 
her  viset  here  &  then  Retomed 
to  Dwell  with  saints  on  high 
where  she  is  Ceased  From 
Every  ancious  Care  &  Joined  ye 
Geniral  Chorus  of  ye  Joy  " 

Evidently  the  last  word  should  have  been  "  sky." 


EPITAPHS  AND   NAMES  II3 

There  is  something  worth  your  philosophic  study 
in  these  graves,  and  in  graves  which  you  may  find 
scattered  all  over  the  world,  which  you  may  classify 
as  you  classify  birds  and  fish  and  mammals  and 
flowers,  placing  them  together.  All  these  people 
died  in  one  faith ;  all  are  of  one  family.  It  strikes 
me  always  as  very  odd,  very  unscientific,  for  men 
to  neglect  great  moral  facts,  and  great  physical 
facts  which  seem  to  be  consequences  of  moral  facts. 
Thousands  of  people  swarming  together  periodical- 
ly towards  central  points,  called  places  of  worship, 
are  as  distinctly  phenomena  as  any  other  physical 
occurrences  in  this  world.  The  impelling  causes, 
if  natural,  demand  the  highest  attention  of  the  phi- 
losopher. If  they  are  not  natural,  then  they  are 
supernatural,  and  annihilate  many  of  the  specula- 
tions of  the  small  philosophers  of  our  day. 

What  higher  philosophy  is  there  ?  It  is  written, 
in  ill-spelled  phrases  but  in  words  of  wonder,  all 
over  these  rude  stones  in  the  up-country  grave- 
yards. "  You  can't  read  it,"  do  you  say  ?  Come, 
and  I  will  show  it  to  you  in  plain  letters  of  modern 
cutting.  For  as  the  rain  fell  steadily,  and  the 
clouds  dragged  down  lower  on  the  valley,  and  it 
grew  colder  and  colder,  I  was  about  to  come  away 
from  the  old  graveyard,  when  I  saw  the  dense,  dark 
mass  of  a  low  spruce  bending  its  branches  heavy 
with  wet  down  to  the  ground.  Parting  the  branch- 
es, I  found  a  brown  stone,  surmounted  by  a  cross, 


114 


ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 


and  read  the  summing  up  of  that  sublime  faith 
which  makes  an  old  New  England  graveyard  to  be 
holy  land.     "  O  Jesu  qui  mihi  crucifixus  es  in 

TE  SPERAVI." 

An  interesting  subject  of  thought  is  found  in  the 
Christian  names  which  have  been  given  to  children, 
borne  through  longer  or  shorter  lives,  and  finally 
carved  on  gravestones.  Whence  came  some  of 
these  names,  especially  as  names  given  to  female 
children  ?  Here  are  a  few  out  of  many  which  I 
have  copied  in  various  burial-places  along  the 
roads.  Some  are  Scriptural,  varied  in  spelling, 
some  noteworthy  only  for  the  spelling : 


Vesta, 

Smilinda, 

Bezaleed, 

Madona, 

Theodate, 

Phileena, 

Imagene, 

Mitty, 

Asenath, 

Sabrisal, 

Rozill, 

Resolved, 

Alanette, 

Lima, 

Comfort, 

Rocksena, 

Orlo, 

Romanzo, 

Ora, 

Elmon, 

Theda, 

Phene, 

Ede, 

Diademia, 

Arozina, 

Irena, 

Coral. 

While  on  this  subject  of  names  of  the  dead,  here 
is  an  illustration  of  names  now  in  use  by  the  living. 
In  a  village  inn  in  New  Hampshire  I  found  the 
printed  catalogue  of  a  school  located  there,  and 
copied  in  my  note -book  the  following  Christian 
names  of  young  lady  students  : 


EPITAPHS  AND   NAMES                          II5 

Myrtie  loline.  Mary  Etta. 

Una  Gertrude.  Margaret  Marilla. 

Mary  Adella.  Lora  Eliza. 

Lois  Ella.  Franca  Lydia. 

Corrie  Elbra.  Fannie  Mae. 

Daisy  Sarah.  Minnie  Etta. 

Hattie  Rose  Pearl.  Lizzie  Estelle. 

Myrtie  Kate.  Mary  Loraine. 

Florence  Genevra.  Bernette  Samantha. 


Here  is  an  interesting  study.  Doubtless  in  each 
family  there  was  a  satisfactory  reason  for  the  name 
given  to  the  child,  however  strange  the  names  ap- 
pear when  brought  together  in  a  catalogue.  Fre- 
quently a  mother  desires  to  perpetuate  in  her  daugh- 
ter the  name  of  the  father,  grandfather,  or  other 
male  relative.  In  such  cases  names  of  men  are 
slightly  transformed  to  become  feminine  in  sound. 
Several  times  I  have  been  told  by  a  mother  that  she 
had  named  her  child  from  a  character  in  a  book 
which  she  had  read,  and  that  not  liking  the  name 
as  found,  she  had  altered  it  a  little.  Often  a  young 
mother,  full  of  joy  and  love,  gives  her  baby  the  name 
of  a  flower.  It  is  not  often  that  parents,  in  naming 
children,  take  into  thought  the  possible  maturity  and 
old  age  of  the  child,  sent  on  in  life  with  a  label  that 
cannot  be  well  effaced.  In  a  Vermont  cemetery  is 
the  grave  of  a  child  who  lived  two  years,  till  1824, 
weighted  with  the  name  Orsamealius  Almeron. 


It6  ALONG   NEW   ENGLAND   ROADS 

Turning  over  an  English  publication  recently,  1 
read  a  note  concerning  a  person  who  died  a  long 
while  ago.  The  writer,  to  verify  his  accuracy  as  to 
the  date  of  the  person's  death,  stated  that  his  coffin- 
plate  is  preserved  in  the  family  residence.  I  do  not 
know  whether  this  indicates  a  custom  to  any  extent 
prevalent  in  England,  of  preserving  coffin-plates  in- 
stead of  burying  them  with  the  dead.  It  may  be 
only  an  accidental  preservation.  But  I  am  sure  it 
is  not  generally  known  that  such  a  custom  has  long 
prevailed  in  many  parts  of  New  England.  In  car- 
riage travel  I  have  frequently  found  the  custom  in 
practice.  I  once  stopped  for  dinner  at  a  farm-house 
and  inn,  in  a  village  in  Connecticut.  We  waited 
awhile  in  the  little  parlor,  which  was  filled  with 
family  treasures  in  the  way  of  curious  and  pretty 
things  on  shelves  and  pictures  on  the  walls.  Among 
the  latter,  framed  separately  under  glass  and  hang- 
ing in  different  parts  of  the  room,  were  three  plain 
silver  coffin-plates,  engraved  in  the  usual  way  with 
the  names,  ages,  and  dates  of  death  of  members  of 
the  family.  This  was  the  first  instance  in  my  ex- 
perience of  this  custom,  which,  I  learned,  was  com- 
mon in  the  neighborhood.  Afterwards  I  met  with 
the  same  custom  in  various  parts  of  other  New 
England  States,  and  it  is  quite  likely  that  it  prevails 
elsewhere  in  the  country. 

Opening  a  drawer  in  my  library,  I  happened  on 
some  small  wooden  tablets  which  I  found  many 


EPITAPHS   AND    NAMES  II7 

years  ago  in  Egypt.  One  of  them,  for  example,  is 
about  four  and  a  half  inches  long  by  three  and  a 
quarter  inches  wide.  Notches  are  cut  in  the  sides 
near  one  end,  which  is  also  perforated  with  a  round 
hole.  This  was  for  a  string.  On  one  side  of  the 
tablet  is  carved  in  deep,  rude  letters,  a  Greek  in- 
inscription :  ^apairoSepog  Krt  KaXerog  er'  )u' :  "  Sara- 
poderos  Kti,  son  of  Kales,  aged  48." 

The  same  words  are  written  in  ink  on  the  other 
side  of  the  wood.  Here  is  the  close  counterpart, 
1800  years  ago,  of  the  modern  coffin  plate.  For 
these  wooden  tags  were  attached  to  the  mummied 
bodies  of  the  dead,  as  records  to  go  with  them  to 
the  burial. 

Every  work  of  art  is  as  much  an  embodiment  of 
thoughts  as  a  written  sentence  or  a  book.  To  look 
at  works  of  art  and  express  opinions  as  to  their 
merit  or  demerit,  to  criticise  them,  is  trifling  work 
of  little  value.  To  read  works  of  art  as  historical 
and  personal  records  is  the  business  of  the  art  stu- 
dent. Here  is  a  remarkable  series  of  works  of  art, 
made  by  men  in  remotely  separated  periods,  which 
evidently  spring  from  one  and  the  same  motive. 
While  we  say  at  once  that  here  is  an  indication, 
slight  but  noteworthy,  of  the  sameness  of  ancient 
and  modern  humanity,  we  are  nevertheless  some- 
what in  the  dark  as  to  this  one  common  motive. 
What  is  it  ?  We  have  similar,  though  not  identical, 
works  in  gravestones  and  monumental  inscriptions. 


Il8       ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

I  do  not  speak  of  the  marking  by  inscriptions  of 
the  resting-places  of  the  dead.  That  is  more  easily 
accounted  for.  But  why  this  custom  of  the  ages, 
pagan  and  Christian,  of  placing  with  the  dead  the 
record  of  how  many  years  he  or  she  had  lived  } 

In  the  vast  numbers  of  ancient  mortuary  inscrip- 
tions which  we  possess,  this  record  is  of  constant 
occurrence.  Aurelia  dulcissima  filia  qica  de  sceculo 
recessit  vixit  ann.  xv.,  m.  iiii.  Antimio  vixit  annis 
lxx.  Julia  Procilla  vixit  ann.  xix.  Innumerable 
examples  like  these  occur,  especially  in  early  Chris- 
tian times.  The  phrase,  "  lived  so  many  years,"  is 
the  common,  often  the  only,  inscription  accompany- 
ing the  name.  Often  the  length  of  the  lifetime  is 
stated  even  to  months  and  days.    Why  this  custom  ? 

I  do  not  attempt  to  answer  the  question.  It  is 
easy  to  find  reasons  for  epitaphs  in  general.  They 
are  various,  under  various  circumstances.  Some, 
many,  are  importunate  appeals  to  the  living  for 
sympathy  in  sorrow.  Some  are  designed  to  perpet- 
uate loved  or  honored  memories.  Not  a  few  which 
speak  passionate  grief  are  but  sounding  phrases, 
published  to  deceive  the  people  into  believing  in  a 
sorrow  which  does  not  exist.  Many  are  devised  as 
sermons  to  the  active  world,  and  many  are  placed 
only  in  obedience  to  existing  custom.  But  I  cannot 
see  clearly  what  has  been  the  constant  motive  of 
survivors  in  burying  their  dead  with  the  statement 
that  he  or  she  had  lived  so  many  years  and  months 


EPITAPHS   AND   NAMES  II9 

and  days.  Purposes  of  identification  do  not  ac- 
count for  it  satisfactorily. 

Professor  A.  C.  Merriam,  in  a  monograph  upon 
the  Egyptian  tags,  says  that  of  the  small  number 
known  there  are  two  classes,  one  class  evidently 
used  to  direct  transportation  of  the  body  from  the 
place  of  death  or  of  embalmment  to  that  of  entomb- 
ment. He  gives  an  example  of  this  kind  of  tag, 
which  reminds  us  of  the  address  of  a  modern  ex- 
press package :  "  To  Diospolis  ;  Pamontis,  son  of 
Tapmontis ;  from  Pandaroi."  The  other  class,  to 
which  mine  belong,  went  into  the  tomb  attached  to 
the  body. 

These  little  wooden  tags  are  objects  of  no  small 
interest.  They  are  probably  not  older  than  the  be- 
ginning of  the  Christian  Era — perhaps  belong  to 
the  second  century.  They  speak  a  mystery,  the 
mystery  I  have  already  indicated.  Whatever  the 
motive  be  of  recording  the  age  of  the  dead,  it  is 
certain  that  there  has  always  been  a  prevalent  idea 
among  men  which  has  led  to  the  placing  with  the 
dead  sometimes  records,  sometimes  personal  ob- 
jects. In  countless  cases  we  know  that  this  idea 
has  been  an  avowed  belief  in  the  immortality  of 
the  soul,  and  the  added  faith  in  a  resurrection. 
Has  a  like  faith,  sometimes  so  faint  as  to  be  un- 
confessed,  led  to  the  custom  in  all  cases?  Did 
those  who  buried  the  son  of  Kales  follow  him  in 
vague  imagination  to  the  world  of  spirit,  and  thus, 


ISO       ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

almost  unconsciously,  regard  his  life  as  continuous, 
unbroken,  while  they  thought  of  this  life  in  the 
body  as  only  a  section  off  from  the  beginning  of 
the  endless  continuity  ?  Is  there  in  all  these  in- 
scriptions an  eloquence  which  those  who  made 
them  did  not  clearly  recognize ;  which  would  be 
made  plain  by  adding  the  word  "  here  ?" — "  Julia 
Procilla  lived  here  nineteen  years."  If  that  were 
the  inscription,  or  if  that  be  the  sense  in  which  it 
was  carved,  then  it  ceases  to  be  a  mere  statement 
of  fact,  and  rises  to  the  highest  rank  as  a  simple 
and  powerful  epitaph.  And  it  is  quite  probable 
that  on  Christian  graves  this  is  the  true  intent  in 
the  use  of  the  word  vixit — lived. 

Was  Sarapoderos  one  of  the  Christians  of  the 
Church  of  St.  Mark  ?  Was  this  tablet-tag  intended 
to  tell  the  Arab  of  later  ages  who  should  rob  his 
grave,  and  me  and  all  others  to  whom  the  inscrip- 
tion should  come,  that  he  passed  the  first  forty- 
eight  years  of  his  existence  here,  in  what  men  call 
"  living,"  and  then  went  to  the  other  living,  where 
he  now  is  and  will  be  forever  ? 

That  common  epitaph : 

"As  you  are  now,  so  once  was  I, 
As  I  am  now  so  you  must  be — " 

brought  to  mind  an  ancient  inscription  said  to  be 
found  on  a  Roman  tablet  at  Naples,  ^^Fui  non  sum : 
estis  non  eritis :  nemo  immortalis." 


fiPITAPHS   AND   NAMES  121 

The  similarity  and  the  immeasurable  difference 
between  the  two  epitaphs  is  manifest  The  phi- 
losophy IS  in  comparing  the  human  minds,  2000 
years  apart,  which  inscribed  them  on  the  tomb  of 
the  dead.  In  both  the  idea  is  a  message,  a  voice, 
from  the  dead  to  the  living.  In  both  is  the  sad 
ring  of  human  consciousness  of  brief  existence, 
universal  certainty  of  the  close  of  this  life.  But 
while  the  ancient  ended  his  words  with  the  pro- 
foundly gloomy  "  no  one  is  immortal,"  the  modern 
closed  his  with  the  assurance  of  another  life  and 
the  words  "  follow  me." 

In  no  custom  of  men  is  there  more  evidence  of 
the  community  of  mind,  the  sameness  of  qualities 
in  the  soul,  than  in  the  custom  of  placing  epitaphs 
over  the  dead.  Nor  can  we,  I  think,  find  in  any 
literature  more  interesting  illustration  of  the  iden 
tity  of  the  race  in  all  ages. 

There  are  ancient  epitaphs  which  are  identical 
in  sentiment  with  hundreds  to  be  found  in  New 
England  and  Old  England  graveyards.  My  notes 
contain  many  such.  It  is  common  enough  in  our 
time  for  parents  to  record  in  stone  their  grief,  as  if 
demanding  sympathy  in  their  affliction  from  even 
strangers,  and  the  passers-by  of  future  times.  "  My 
darling,  my  darling,"  were  four  words  which  I 
copied  from  a  child's  gravestone  one  day;  "Our 
dear  little  one,"  from  another;  scores  of  like  ex- 
pressions you  are  familiar  with.     How  like  the  sen- 


122  ALONG   NEW    ENGLAND    ROADS 

timent  to  that  of  ancient  parents.  At  Aquileia, 
ages  ago,  Aurelius  and  Prima,  father  and  mother, 
made  a  tomb  for  their  little  Aurelia,  named  doubt- 
less for  her  father,  and  wrote  on  it  '■^Aurelia,  aninuz 
dukissimce :  qua  vixit  In  pace  ann.  IIII.  men,  VI. 
diebus  XXIIir 

They  loved  that  "  sweetest  soul."  "  She  lived 
in  peace,"  for  they  had  made  home  peaceful,  and 
she  had  brought  peace  with  her  in  the  household. 
They  counted  in  memory  every  short  year  of  the 
four,  every  moon  of  the  six,  and  they  treasured 
with  devout  love  each  hour  of  the  twenty -three 
days  which  were  last  in  the  short  life  of  their  joy. 
Many  a  modern  father  and  mother  have  knowl- 
edge of  the  emotion  which  led  them  to  carve  this 
epitaph. 

And  that  custom  of  recording  even  the  days  of  a 
beloved  life,  ancient  and  modern,  on  innumerable 
stones,  reminds  me,  in  passing,  of  an  inscription  at 
Rome  which  went  still  further,  thus  :  ^'■Vix.  Ann. 
XIX.,  M.  II.,  D.  IX.:  horas  scit  nemo  "— "  She  lived 
nineteen  years,  two  months,  nine  days,  hours  no 
one  knoweth.'* 

Not  alone  parents  to  children,  but  husbands  and 
wives  to  one  another,  and  children  to  parents,  placed 
in  ancient  as  in  modern  times,  memorials  of  affec- 
tion and  respect,  carved  on  stone  for  perpetuation. 
At  Naples  Proculus  and  Procillanus  made  a  monu- 
ment to  Marcia,  " Matri Sanctissima^^ — "their  most 


EPITAPHS   AND   NAMES  1 23 

holy  mother."  Somewhere,  I  forget  where,  a  Ro- 
man husband  said  of  his  wife,  on  her  gravestone, 
"  Nil unquam peccavit,  nisi  quod  mortua  est" — "  She 
never  did  a  wrong,  except  that  she  died." 

It  is  very  rare  indeed  to  find  on  a  modern  tomb- 
stone a  doubt  of  immortality.  Once  I  copied  an 
epitaph  in  which  occurred  the  distinct  assertion 
that  the  man  who  lay  there  believed  in  no  God. 
Whether  he  ordered  the  record,  or  another  placed 
it  there  without  direction,  I  know  not.  I  have  a 
note  of  a  Roman  epitaph,  "  Vixi  et  ultra  vitam  nihil 
credidi  " — "  I  have  lived,  and  I  believed  in  nothing 
beyond  this  life."  Another  of  two  "  most  sad " 
parents  over  a  loved  child  expressed  despairing 
grief  in  terms  of  bitterness  :  "  We  are  cheated  in 
our  votive  offerings;  we  are  deceived  by  time,  and 
death  laughs  at  all  our  carefulness :  Anxious  life 
comes  to  nothing." 


XII 

FINDING    NEW   COUNTRY 

Leaving  Franconia  one  may  drive  north  or  south, 
as  he  pleases,  until  well  away  from  the  high  mount- 
ains, and  then  take  such  direction  as  may  tempt 
him.  A  magnificent  drive  is  through  Bethlehem, 
Whitefield,  Groveton,  North  Stratford,  to  Cole- 
brook,  which  is  on  the  upper  Connecticut  River ; 
thence  eastward  across  the  State  through  Dixville 
Notch  to  Errol  on  the  Androscoggin  ;  thence  along 
the  west  side  of  Lake  Umbagog  to  Upton,  and 
down  the  Bear  River  Notch  to  Bethel  in  Maine. 
This  drive,  easily  accomplished  in  a  week,  is  full 
of  delights.  It  is  in  large  part  through  wild  coun- 
try, but  the  roads  are  in  general  better  than  in  the 
more  southern  country. 

Southward  from  the  Profile  House  the  road  fol- 
lows the  Pemigewasset  River  and  valley  to  Plym- 
outh, some  thirty  miles.  The  traveller  going  tow- 
ards home  in  Massachusetts  or  elsewhere  in  the 
lower  country,  may  follow  the  river  road  to  Bris- 
tol and  Franklin  Falls,  and  then  go  down  the 
bank  of  the  Merrimac  through  Concord.     Or  he 


ON   THE    PROFILE    ROAD 


FINDING  NEW  COUNTRY  12$ 

may  take  a  route  through  the  middle  of  the  State, 
over  highland  country,  or  he  may  cross  the  State 
to  the  Connecticut  valley,  and  go  southward  along 
that  river. 

If  in  leaving  the  mountain  country  he  desires  to 
go  nowhere  in  particular,  only  to  wander  along  the 
roads,  he  can  do  no  better  than  to  drive  into  north- 
ern Vermont.  The  direct  route  from  Franconia  is 
through  Littleton,  and,  crossing  the  Connecticut  at 
Waterford,  to  St.  Johnsbury. 

By  way  of  finding  new  country,  I  drove  from 
Franconia  to  Lancaster  in  New  Hampshire. 

From  Lancaster  we  drove  across  the  Connecticut 
into  Vermont,  and  down  the  river.  We  did  not 
start  until  afternoon,  thinking  not  to  go  beyond 
Lunenberg  Heights.  That  little  village  stands  on 
a  hill,  with  a  grand  view  of  the  Franconia  and  White 
Mountain  ranges,  the  valley  of  the  Connecticut  ly- 
ing some  four  or  six  hundred  feet  below,  in  the 
foreground  of  the  landscape.  The  air  was  smoky, 
and  we  could  not  get  all  the  extent  of  this  grand 
outlook.  As  the  afternoon  was  not  far  advanced, 
I  decided  to  go  on  westward. 

If  you  will  look  at  a  map  you  will  see  that  Lunen- 
berg lies  about  forty  miles  south  of  the  Canada  line, 
and  due  east  of  St.  Johnsbury.  Going  northward 
in  Vermont  you  can  follow  up  the  valley  of  the 
Connecticut  to  the  Canada  line  by  a  road  along  the 
river,  or  you  can  follow  up  the  valley  of  the  Pas- 


126        ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

sumpsic  River,  from  St.  Johnsbury,  and  diverging 
at  West  Burke,  go  north  Along  the  eastern  side  of 
Mount  Annanance  (on  Lake  Willoughby)  to  Island 
Pond,  and  thence  on  to  Canada.  Between  these 
two  routes  there  is  no  northward  route  through  this 
north-eastern  part  of  Vermont.  Nor  is  there  any 
practicable  road  from  east  to  west  across  any  part 
of  this  section.  The  road  I  was  driving  that  after- 
noon, from  Lancaster  to  St.  Johnsbury,  is  the  most 
northern  road  in  Vermont,  going  west  from  the 
Connecticut  River,  across  this  part  of  the  State. 
There  was  a  poor  road  once  along  the  track  of  the 
Grand  Trunk  rail  from  North  Stratford  to  Island 
Pond,  but  it  has  not  been  kept  up  as  a  summer 
road,  and  is  not  safe.  There  is  a  mountain  road 
across  from  Guildhall  to  Burke,  but  it  is  so  rough 
that  only  necessity  should  lead  any  one  over  it 
with  a  light  wagon.  I  have  only  to  add  that  I  do 
not  recommend  this  road  from  Lunenberg  to  St. 
Johnsbury. 

Two  miles  out  from  Lunenberg  the  road  became 
narrow,  and  deep  mud  holes  and  deeper  dry  holes 
were  frequent.  Then  it  became  rough  and  rocky. 
This  is  not  an  untravelled  road.  It  is  in  constant 
use.  We  met  fifteen  vehicles — heavy  farm  wagons, 
covered  buggies,  and  others — and  the  meeting  in 
narrow  passes,  among  rocks  or  mud  holes,  was  se- 
rious business.  I  suppose  the  condition  of  this 
road  is  due  to  the  system  of  road-making  by  town 


FINDING    NEW   COUNTRY  1 27 

tax.  Lunenberg  is  not  a  rich  town,  is  sparsely  set- 
tled, and  this  road,  the-most  northerly  cross-road 
from  St.  Johnsbury  to  the  Connecticut,  is  used 
more  by  non-residents  than  residents.  It  presents 
a  strong  argument  for  a  new  system  of  public 
roads  used  by  the  public.  When  the  States  utilize 
State  prison  and  county  jail  labor  on  road-making 
they  will  have  better  roads,  no  dispute  with  labor 
societies  about  prison  labor,  increase  the  taxable 
value  of  farm  property,  and  add  to  the  intelligence 
and  home -loving  character  of  the  population,  as 
well  as  add  to  the  population.  Railroads  have 
cursed  and  depopulated  Northern  New  England. 
Good  wagon  roads  are  needed  for  the  restoration 
of  the  country.  What  is  true  of  this  part  of  the 
country  is  true  in  many  other  States  of  the  Union. 
Three  hours  of  the  golden  afternoon  it  took  me 
to  accomplish  five  miles.  Then  we  entered  the 
town  of  Concord.  But  the  sun  was  setting,  and 
St.  Johnsbury  was  yet  sixteen  miles  away.  If  the 
road  were  to  be  of  the  same  sort  we  should  hardly 
get  through  at  all  in  the  dark ;  so  we  began  to 
think  of  a  stopping  -  place.  Two  miles  on  we 
drove  into  a  little  saw-mill  village  at  the  outlet  of 
Miles  Pond,  famous  for  pickerel,  and  we  were  told 
that  there  was  no  inn  in  the  village,  but  that  trav- 
ellers were  sometimes  "accommodated"  at  the 
house  of  a  hospitable  family,  to  which  I  drove.  It 
was  the  last  house  in  the  village,  a  small,  unpaint- 


128       ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

ed,  one-Story  house,  on  the  bank  of  the  pond,  and 
the  tired  horses  gladly  stopped  on  the  grass  before 
the  door.  A  lady  was  sitting  on  the  stoop,  sewing 
by  the  last  of  the  daylight.  Could  they  take  care 
of  us  for  the  night  ?  She  could  not  say ;  her  hus- 
band would  be  at  home  from  the  field  very  soon ; 
she  could  take  care  of  us,  but  he  would  have  to 
say  whether  he  could  take  care  of  the  horses.  We 
must  await  his  coming.  So  we  threw  blankets  over 
the  horses  and  waited.  The  twilight  came  down. 
My  rod,  as  always,  was  lying  in  the  carriage,  and  I 
put  on  a  large  white  fly  and  went  to  the  shore  of 
the  pond.  Two  or  three  casts  to  get  out  line,  then 
a  long  back  cast,  and — my  fly  was  on  a  telegraph- 
wire  which  was  high  overhead  behind  me — and  the 
leader  went  into  a  mass  of  raspberry-bushes  along 
the  bank  which  overhung  the  water.  Telegraph- 
lines  are  among  the  abominations  of  anglers.  They 
penetrate  the  wildest  woods,  and  arrest  one's  cast 
in  the  most  unexpected  places.  I  have  left  flies  on 
telegraph-wires  all  over  the  world.  No  amount  of 
experience  serves  to  make  one  careful.  Three  suc- 
cessive casts  I  left  on  a  wire  between  Saltzburg 
and  Ischl.  Now  I  put  on  another  fly,  and  threw 
it  out  among  the  stars,  which  were  plenty  and  sil- 
very in  the  calm  depths  under  the  lily-pads.  No 
pickerel  should  have  been  out  so  late,  but  there 
was  one  half-pound  fellow  who  was  still  abroad, 
and  he  took  the  fly  j  and  while  I  was  landing  him 


FINDING   NEW   COUNTRY  1 29 

our  host  arrived,  and  said  he  could  take  care  of  the 
horses.  So  we  went  in,  and  were  most  kindly  and 
hospitably  treated.  The  little  house  held  us  com- 
fortably. We  had  a  broiled  bird,  eggs  on  toast, 
and  abundant  doughnuts,  and  cakes  of  various 
kinds,  and  milk  in  plenty  for  supper. 

The  road  was  good  next  day  through  West  Con- 
cord to  St.  Johnsbury,  where  we  dined,  and  that 
evening  we  rested  at  Danville  Green. 

Danville  Green  will  assuredly  be  better  known 
in  future  years.  It  is  a  little  village  on  a  lofty 
piece  of  upland  farming  country,  commanding  a 
majestic  view.  The  jnost  striking  feature  in  this 
view  is  the  eastern  horizon,  which  is  formed  by  the 
New  Hampshire  and  Franconia  mountains.  Of 
these  there  is  scarcely  a  known  peak  which,  seen 
from  this  angle,  is  not  brought  out  separately 
against  the  sky.  Thus  the  White  Mountain  or 
Presidential  Range,  from  Madison  and  Adams  to 
the  Crawford  Notch,  and  the  Franconia  Range 
from  the  Crawford  Notch  to  Lafayette  and  Kins- 
man, are  laid  out  in  a  succession  of  elevations, 
while  Moosilauke,  at  the  extreme  right,  ends  the 
serrated  horizon  line. 

Joe's  Pond  lies  a  mile  or  two  to  the  westward  of 
Danville  Green,  and  Molly's  Pond  a  few  miles  far- 
ther to  the  west,  on  the  road  we  drove  towards 
Montpelier.  The  waters  of  the  former  flow  into 
the  Connecticut,  while  the  latter  pours  out  in  a  fine 
9 


130       ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

Stream  which  is  one  of  the  heads  of  the  Winooski, 
or  Onion  River,  emptying  into  Lake  Champlain. 

On  this  outlet  of  Mollie's  Pond  is  one  of  the 
finest  cascades  in  the  country.  The  stream,  which 
has  been  rushing  and  roaring  along  its  rocky  bed, 
suddenly  plunges  down  the  hill  into  the  valley  in 
a  white  torrent.  The  fall  maybe  150  feet  in  height, 
not  perpendicular,  but  over  a  series  of  steep,  rocky 
steps.  The  forest  overhangs  it  on  both  sides.  If 
you  are  driving  down  the  valley  from  Cabot  your 
road  passes  directly  in  front  of  this  magnificent 
water-fall.  Were  it  in  Switzerland  it  would  have 
wide  renown.  On  the  direct  road  leading  from 
Danville  to  Marshfield  the  cascade  is  not  visible, 
though  its  roar  comes  out  of  the  forest  on  your 
right  as  you  pass  near  it.  The  cascade  is  known 
hereabouts  as  Molly's  Falls.  Molly's  Falls  are  on 
Molly's  Brook,  and  Molly's  Brook  flows  from  Molly's 
Pond. 

Joe  and  Molly  are  historical  characters  in  the 
Coos  country.  Joe  was  a  young  Indian  from  Nova 
Scotia  who,  on  the  practical  destruction  of  his  tribe 
after  the  siege  of  Louisburg,  drifted  to  the  St. 
Francois  tribe,  and  made  his  home  on  the  Connect- 
icut where  Newbury  now  is.  He  was  always  on 
kind  terms  with  the  early  settlers,  and  lived  to  a 
good  old  age,  enjoying  a  pension  from  Vermont 
until  his  death  in  1819.  In  his  early  days  he  took 
a  wife  (known  to  the  whites  as  Molly)  who  had  by 


FINDING    NEW    COUNTRY  131 

a  former  husband  two  sons  named  Toomalek  and 
Muxawuxal.  The  latter  died.  The  former  lived  to 
be  a  grief  to  his  mother.  He  is  described  as  a 
short,  broad,  fiendish-looking,  bad  Indian.  He  de- 
sired for  his  wife  a  young  girl,  Lewa,  who  preferred 
and  married  another.  Whereupon  Toomalek,  watch- 
ing for  his  opportunity  to  kill  the  favored  lover,  now 
the  husband,  saw  the  two  sitting  by  their  camp-fire 
in  the  evening,  shot  at  the  man  and  killed  the  wife. 
The  Indians  tried  him  by  their  law.  Old  chief 
John,  a  renowed  warrior,  presided,  and  laid  down 
the  law  that  as  Toomalek  had  shot  at  the  husband 
and  missed  him,  he  had  committed  no  crime  as 
against  him  ;  that  as  he  had  not  intended  to  shoot 
the  woman  in  shooting  at  the  man,  the  occurrence 
was  accidental  so  far  as  she  was  concerned.  So 
they  discharged  him.  But  John  lived  to  repent  his 
small  knowledge  of  the  distinct  crimes  of  murder 
and  manslaughter.  Toomalek  shortly  after  killed 
the  husband  in  a  fray,  and  again  went  free,  it  being 
adjudged  that  he  acted  in  self-defence.  It  was  old 
John  who  saved  him  again  by  his  legal  acumen. 

Old  John's  eldest  and  favorite  son,  Pial,  with 
other  young  Indians,  was  walking  across  the  fields 
now  in  North  Haverhill,  when  an  exchange  of 
words  sprang  up  between  him  and  an  Indian  girl. 
She  whispered  in  Toomalek's  ear,  and  he,  turning 
short,  drove  his  knife  through  Pial,  then  and  there 
killing  him,  contrary  to  Indian  and  white  Uw  an4 


132  ALONG  NEW   ENGLAND   ROADS 

the  peace  of  both  communities.  This  time  the 
whites  undertook  to  administer  justice,  and  they 
did  it  with  a  queer  intermingling  of  white  and  cop- 
per-colored law  and  practice.  The  court  was  ap- 
parently a  town  meeting,  called  at  Newbury  the 
morning  after  the  murder,  and  the  judgment  of 
death  was  unanimous,  including  the  Indian  law  that 
the  father  of  the  murdered  man  must  kill  the  mur- 
derer. But  first  they  sent  a  committee  to  consult 
the  clergyman,  whose  approval  being  obtained,  they 
made  Toomalek  sit  down,  and  gave  John  a  musket, 
with  which  he  executed  the  judgment  of  private  re- 
venge and  public  law  on  the  son  of  Molly. 

Joe  and  Molly  were  present  at  the  execution, 
buried  the  body  themselves,  and  it  is  reported  that 
Molly,  who  had  but  lately  wept  long  and  bitterly 
over  the  natural  death  of  her  other  son,  Muxa- 
wuxal,  shed  no  tears  for  Toomalek,  nor  was  ever 
heard  to  mention  his  name.  During  the  War  of  the 
Revolution  Joe  was  always  on  the  side  of  the  colo- 
nists ;  was  a  great  admirer  of  Washington ;  boasted 
of  a  visit  he  once  paid  to  the  great  father  at  New- 
burg  on  the  Hudson  and  of  a  kind  reception  there, 
and  was  known  to  have  such  permanent  hatred  to- 
wards the  British  that  he  would  never  cross  the 
Canada  line  even  in  following  moose  through  the 
forests.  His  Indian  friends  could  never  persuade 
him  to  join  the  St.  Francis  tribe  in  Canada,  nor 
when  once  they  stole  Molly  and  carried  her  there 


FINDING   NEW  COUNTRY  1^3 

would  he  go  after  her.  She  came  back  and  died. 
He  outlived  her,  and  growing  very  old,  received  a 
pension  of  $70  per  annum  from  Vermont  until  his 
death  in  18 19.  When  he  died  the  Newbury  people 
did  him  honor,  laid  him  in  the  north-east  comer  of 
the  burying-ground,  and  discharged  over  his  grave 
the  last  load  which  the  old  Indian  had  placed  and 
left  in  his  gun.  Says  Mr.  Powers  ( the  historian  of 
the  Coos  country,  from  whose  book  I  have  con- 
densed this  story  ) :  "  with  Captain  Joe  fell  the  last 
of  the  Indians  at  Coosuck,  that  once  fairy-land  of 
long-slumbering  generations." 

You  will  see  that  the  names  "  Joe's  Pond  "  and 
"  Molly's  Pond"  are  sacred  historical  names.  Some 
one  will  be  trying  to  change  them  some  day  be- 
cause they  are  not  of  pleasant  sound.  But  they 
should  stand. 

We  dined  at  Marshfield,  drove  on  to  Plainfield, 
and  instead  of  keeping  on  to  Montpelier  turned 
southward,  crossing  high  hills  with  far  views  of  the 
mountains,  and  reached  Barre  at  sunset. 

As  I  entered  the  village  an  old  friend  greeted 
me.  We  had  been  together  in  many  countries,  and 
his  greeting  was  the  salutation  of  peace  which  is 
common  in  the  Orient. 

Why  is  it  that  English-speaking  peoples  of  all 
the  world  have  none  of  those  beautiful  forms  of 
greeting  when  friends  meet  ?  It  is  because  of  this 
great  lack  in  our  language,  or  our  customs,  that 


134       ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

travellers  who  have  been  in  Oriental  countries  are 
fond  of  using  Oriental  salutations.  The  American 
or  the  Englishman,  when  he  meets  his  dearest 
friends  after  a  long  or  short  separation,  in  ninety- 
nine  cases  out  of  a  hundred  asks  him,  "How  do 
you  do  ?"  or  "  How  are  you  ?"  Perhaps  he  varies 
it  by  saying,  if  surprised,  "  Why,  John  !"  Lovers 
have  no  more  tender  phrase  when  they  meet  in  the 
presence  of  friends  than  the  same  "  How  do  you 
do?"  The  physician  or  the  clergyman  coming  to 
the  bedside  of  the  sick  man  or  woman,  like  all 
other  friends,  can  only  ask,  "How  do  you  do 
to-day?"  or,  "How  do  you  find  yourself?"  or 
some  other  vague  inquiry  always  beginning  with 
"how." 

It  is  otherwise  in  parting.  We  have  good  old 
phrases  of  benediction  which  we  use,  whether  we 
mean  them  or  not.  Why  not  some  like  phrases  for 
salutation  in  meeting,  like  the  old  Romans,  "  Good 
health  to  you  j"  or,  best  of  all,  that  salutation  which 
has  been  used  in  the  Orient  with  uninterrupted  suc- 
cession for  thousands  of  years,  "Peace  be  with 
you." 

What  were  the  revisers  of  the  Old  Testament 
about  when  they  failed  to  revise  the  King  James 
translation  of  that  salutation  repeatedly  occurring  ? 
When  the  prophet  met  the  woman  whose  boy  lay 
dead  at  home,  he  did  not  greet  her  in  the  vague 
phraseology  of  the  Englishman  or  the  American, 


FINDING   NEW   COUNTRY  1 35 

"  Is  it  well  with  thee  ?  Is  it  well  with  the  child  ?" 
Nor  did  she  answer  with  that  cold  word  "Well." 
He  said,  "  Is  it  peace  with  thee  ?  Is  it  peace  with 
the  child  ?"  and  she  said,  with  infinite  calm  and 
trust,  "  It  is  peace." 


XIII 
BOYS  WITH  STAND-UP  COLLARS 

What  boys  those  were  I  Looking  about  one  in 
the  Christmas-times  in  New  York,  and  seeing  the 
crowds  of  young  people  who  are  at  home  from 
school  for  the  holidays,  it  is  impossible  not  to  con- 
trast the  boys  of  to-day  in  the  city  with  those  boys. 
This  is  not  the  pessimist's  way  of  always  thinking 
the  old  times  better  than  the  latter  days.  It  is  no 
imaginary  contrast.  It  is  simply  the  demand  of  the 
modern  boy,  which  he  makes  on  you  wherever  you 
meet  him,  to  examine  and  pronounce  judgment  on 
him.  He  challenges  your  opinion.  His  mother 
sent  him  out  into  the  street  to  challenge  it.  He  is 
a  work  of  art,  and  as  such  is  set  before  you  to  be 
admired,  with  the  expectation  that  you  will  look  at 
him  and  pronounce  on  the  quality  of  the  art  which 
has  produced  him.  These  little  specimens  of  young 
humanity,  with  tight  little  trousers,  tight  little  coats, 
tight  little  white  chokers  around  their  necks,  little 
canes  in  their  hands  and  little  thoughts  in  their 
heads,  are  correct  representatives  of  the  boys  that 


BOYS    WITH    STAND-UP   COLLARS  1 37 

some  modern  mothers  are  bringing  up  for  the  next 
generation  of  men. 

It  is  a  melancholy  fact,  which  no  father  who  has 
daughters  can  fail  to  recognize,  that  the  girls  of  to- 
day are  in  education  and  personal  force  of  charac- 
ter much  ahead  of  the  boys.  There  are  plenty  of 
hearty,  bright,  brilliant,  sensible  girls.  Society  has 
not  spoiled  them,  with  all  its  frivolities. 

Society  is  an  essential  part  of  this  life.  Those 
who  abuse  it  with  wholesale  sweeping  denuncia- 
tions do  not  know  what  they  are  talking  about. 
The  purpose  of  education  and  life  is  happiness — 
here  and  hereafter.  She  who  has  been  so  educated 
that  she  is  able  to  be  happy  and  hopeful  and  to 
confer  happiness  and  hopefulness  on  those  around 
her — is  well  educated.  This  life  and  the  other  life 
are  closely  interwoven,  and  it  is  by  no  means  nec- 
essary to  abandon  this  life  for  the  sake  of  getting 
ready  for  that.  The  duties  of  this  life  are  present 
duties,  and  whatever  be  our  social  surroundings, 
whether  in  the  informal  associations  of  country  soci- 
ety or  in  the  settled  formalities  and  splendid  deco- 
rations of  city  society,  there  are  duties  which  men 
and  women  owe  to  one  another.  Those  who  in- 
veigh against  the  evils  of  society  would  do  well  to 
measure  the  certain  results  which  would  follow  ,the 
abolition  of  that  which  they  decry.  Our  civiliza- 
tion rests  for  its  support  on  the  splendors  and  lux- 
uries  of  life  far  more  than  on  the  utilities.     Our 


138       ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

charities,  hospitals,  missions,  all  derive  their  sup- 
port from  the  wealth  which  is  the  product  of  our 
social  system.  No  mechanic,  mason,  carpenter, 
hod-carrier,  artisan,  tradesman,  whatever  his  em- 
ployment, whatever  he  produces  or  sells,  would 
have  a  dollar  to  give  to  the  church  or  the  poor  but 
for  the  fact  that  the  rich  wear  rich  apparel,  live  in 
gorgeous  houses,  give  brilliant  receptions,  enjoy  the 
splendor  of  modern  social  life. 

In  this  social  life,  whether  its  brilliancy  be  that 
of  intellectual  gatherings,  or  of  dress  and  formality, 
woman  has  right  to  rule  supreme.  There  is  no 
work  of  art  on  earth,  ancient  or  modem,  more 
beautiful,  more  worthy  of  admiration,  than  a  well- 
dressed  woman.  If  she  were  not  a  thing  to  be  ad- 
mired, the  saint  of  old  time,  to  whom  were  given 
visions  of  heaven,  would  not  have  likened  the 
Holy  City  to  a  bride  adorned.  The  pathway  to  the 
better  country  does  not  necessarily  lie  through  the 
waste  places  of  this  life.  Many  saints  there  be 
who  have  walked  it  among  all  the  splendors  and 
allurements  of  society.  Mostly,  I  think,  women, 
not  men.  And  in  our  own  day,  it  is  undeniable 
that  the  young  women  in  society  are  in  general  the 
intellectual  superiors  of  the  young  men.  Some 
parents  look  solely  for  wealth  in  selecting  husbands 
for  their  daughters;  but  I  imagine  these  parents 
are  more  rare  than  is  commonly  believed.  And  it 
is  certainly  true  that  many  judicious  fathers  and 


BOYS    WITH    STAND-UP    COLLARS  139 

mothers,  recognizing  the  ability  of  their  daughters 
to  be  blessings  and  adornments  of  homes  and  of 
society,  are  sadly  occupied  in  measuring  the  visible 
inferiority  of  the  young  men  whom  they  see  and 
estimate  side  by  side  with  their  daughters. 

What  boys  those  were !  Can  these  little  fellows, 
with  tight  collars  and  cravats  at  fourteen,  ever 
make  such  men  as  those  boys  made.  There  is 
something  wholly  inconsistent  with  development 
of  intellect  in  a  tight  stand-up  collar  around  a  boy's 
neck.  Freedom  of  physical  action  is  certainly  es- 
sential to  freedom  of  mind  and  thought.  Fashion 
imposes  on  men  in  society  formalities  of  dress. 
The  rules  of  society  are  proper  and  obedience  is 
necessary ;  otherwise  society  would  degenerate  and 
license  destroy  its  system,  which  must  be  preserved. 
Therefore  men  in  society  must  dress  as  the  rules 
require,  however  ill  be  the  taste  which  has  made 
the  rules.  But  boys  are  not  in  society ;  and  it  is  a 
fearful  blunder  which  mothers  make  in  dressing 
their  boys  as  if  they  belonged  to  a  social  system, 
or  according  to  the  rules  of  any  such  system,  thus 
teaching  them  to  demand  such  dress  as  they  grow 
older,  and  to  regard  it  as  a  governing  consideration 
in  life.  Boys  who  dress  in  the  style  of  some  ab- 
surd-looking slips  of  humanity  one  meets  nowadays 
can't  possibly  be  boys.  They  are  little  automatons, 
mimicking  the  solemnities  of  mature  life,  carica- 
turing the  sober  realities  of  society. 


14©       ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

What  boys  those  were ! — I  say  it  again.  The 
memory  of  them  comes  with  the  fresh  brilliancy  of 
a  December  Christmas  wind  out  of  the  north, 
sharp,  clear,  with  the  sound  of  sleigh-bells  and 
shouts.  Are  there  any  like  them  now?  Doubt- 
less plenty ;  but  the  modem  schools,  with  gymna- 
siums for  training  the  physical  system,  do  not  seem 
to  turn  out  one  in  three,  or  one  in  a  dozen,  such 
boys  as  used  to  be  in  any  high-class  school  in  the 
country.  The  contrary  is  asserted.  I  don't  be- 
lieve it.  Never  did  the  system  of  old  Greece, 
which  classed  athletics  among  the  three  great 
branches  of  education,  make  more  noble  speci- 
mens of  young  strength  than  our  country  schools 
did  in  old  times,  and  perhaps  now  do.  But  these 
are  never  the  boys  that  wear  tight  things  around 
any  of  their  muscles — above  all,  never  boys  that 
wear  stiff  stand-up  collars  habitually.  To  be  a 
great  boy  is  easier  than  to  be  a  great  man.  It 
comes  naturally  with  pure  association,  liberal  use 
of  muscles  as  well  as  mind,  freedom  of  feeling 
which  comes  from  freedom  of  clothing.  It  is  easy 
to  spoil  what  would  be  a  great  boy  if  let  alone. 
Put  him  up  to  thinking  much  of  how  he  looks  when 
dressed  to  go  out,  and  the  boy  will  turn  out  next 
to  worthless  as  a  boy  among  boys,  and  have  poor 
prospects  as  a  man. 

Perhaps  I  mistake  those  boys  of  old  time,  and 
the  glow  which  invests  them  is  the  deceitful  light 


BOYS   WITH    STAND-UP    COLLARS  141 

that  memory  sometimes  creates  like  a  halo  around 
the  things  we  loved  long  ago.  But  there  is  no 
error  in  the  estimate  one  must  make  of  a  large 
class  of  boys  in  modern  cities.  There  is  good 
stuff  in  them,  but  the  vigor  and  force  is  taken 
out  of  it  between  the  ages  of  eight  and  fifteen. 
They  have  by  that  time  no  independence  of  char- 
acter ;  are,  at  their  best,  imitators,  without  self-re- 
liance. It  is  a  bad  thing  to  make  a  boy's  ambition 
to  be  measured  by  what  other  boys  do,  his  ideas  of 
taste  controlled  by  other  boys'  ideas,  his  language 
and  conversation  reduced  to  the  slang  of  a  set  of 
boys. 

If  you  have  no  other  guide  in  conducting  your 
boy's  life,  good  mother,  take  this  :  Give  him  some- 
thing to  remember ;  keep  him  from  all  that  he  would 
in  mature  life  wish  to  forget.  There  is  no  more 
precious  possession  to  the  man  than  memories  of 
boyhood.  They  grow  more  precious  with  advan- 
cing age.  If  it  be  possible,  forbid  in  your  boy's 
life  that  he  shall  ever  look  back  from  the  serious 
years  of  maturity  and  have  to  say  to  himself, 
"What  a  little  fool  I  was  in  those  days!"  All  men 
remember  follies,  and  the  honest  follies  of  a  boy 
are  pleasant  memories,  that  one  can  laugh  at  and 
remember  joyously.  But  deliberate  follies  persist- 
ed in  from  year  to  year,  through  all  the  sunniest 
years  of  life,  are  not  pleasant  to  look  back  at ;  and 
saddest  of  all  they  will  seem  if  the  boy-man  shall 


142  ALONG    NEW    ENGLAND    ROADS 

have  to  say,  "  I  was  a  foolish  boy  because  my  par- 
ents made  me  one." 

All  this  because  of  the  group  of  country  boys  we 
saw  at  play  in  front  of  a  school-house  on  the  road- 
side. They  were  stout,  healthy,  happy  boys,  and 
some  of  them  will  be  men  of  mark  hereafter. 


XIV 
PILGRIMAGE   ENDED 

It  is  a  windy  night.  Elsewhere  it  might  be 
called  a  tempestuous  night,  but  up  in  the  north 
country  of  New  Hampshire  we  are  used  to  high 
winds,  and  this  is  only  a  gale,  not  a  tempest.  The 
forest  is  uttering  thunderous  voices,  such  as  it  al- 
ways utters  when  arguing  with  the  wind.  You  can 
find  resemblances  to  any  and  every  sound  you  ever 
heard  in  these  forest  sounds.  Low  voices  in  va- 
rious tones  mingle  with  the  roar.  Sitting  here  in 
the  cabin,  you  will  think  them  like  whatever  your 
mind  happens  to  be  directed  towards.  I  have  been 
reading  a  book ;  therefore  I  hear  the  sound  of  the 
surf  on  a  reef,  and  the  whistling  of  the  wind  through 
the  cordage  of  a  ship,  and  the  cries  of  people  in 
many  tones.  I  have  been  reading  an  account  of  a 
traveller  landing  from  a  ship  at  the  port  of  Jaffa — 
ancient  Joppa — the  seaport  of  Jerusalem.  They 
call  it  a  port,  but  it  is  no  port.  The  steamer  anch- 
ors in  the  offing.  If  the  wind  be  off  shore  you 
can  go  safely  enough  through  the  break  in  the  reef ; 
if  the  wind  be  otherwise,  and  be  only  a  little  fresh, 


144       ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

the  landing  is  difficult,  sometimes  impracticable. 
Several  times  I  have  gone  through  the  reef,  and 
fought  my  way  up  the  steps  into  the  crowd  of 
Turks,  Arabs,  and  infidels  on  the  shore  street  of 
that  wretched  Jaffa.  The  last  time  that  I  was  there 
I  did  not  go  ashore.  The  day  was  memorable,  and 
comes  back  in  memory  whenever,  as  now,  I  read  of 
the  experience  of  travellers  on  their  way  to  the  Holy 
City. 

We  were  coming  down  the  coast  of  the  Levant 
on  the  Austrian  Lloyds'  steamer.  The  only  first- 
class  passenger  on  board  besides  ourselves  was  a 
Greek  caloyer ;  but  the  deck  of  the  ship  was  loaded 
with  hundreds  of  poor  pilgrims  on  their  way  to 
Jerusalem — a  crowd  of  men,  women,  and  children 
of  various  nationalities,  mostly  showing  signs  of  ex- 
treme poverty,  and  all  very  far  away  from  godliness 
in  the  matter  of  cleanliness.  It  was  difficult  to 
make  one's  way  along  the  deck  without  treading 
on  arms  or  legs  or  children.  Why  do  those  poor 
pilgrims  always  take  such  crowds  of  children  to 
Jerusalem  ? 

In  the  cabin  all  was  pleasant.  The  steamer  was 
of  the  first-class,  and  her  table  was  of  the  best  I 
ever  saw  at  sea.  It  was  in  consequence  thereof 
that  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  priest,  our 
only  fellow-traveller ;  for  at  the  dinner-table  we  sat 
down  only  five  persons,  of  whom  two  were  the  cap- 
tain and  the  ship's  surgeon ;  and  when  I  praised  a 


PILGRIMAGE    ENDED  1 45 

dish,  the  latter  spoke,  saying,  "We  are  proud  of 
our  table,  and  think  we  have  the  best  cook  but  one 
in  the  Austrian  Lloyds'  service." 

"Yes,  he  is  certainly  a  great  cook;  but  who  is 
his  superior  ?" 

"  His  father,  who  is  one  of  the  oldest  cooks  in 
the  service,  and  has  six  sons,  all  cooks  in  the  serv- 
ice, and  two  daughters  married  to  cooks  in  the 
service." 

"A  valuable  family  to  the  service,"  said  a  re- 
markably gentle  and  yet  strong  voice  at  my  side, 
and  I  turned  to  look  at  the  man  who  had  just  taken 
his  place  by  me.  He  was  a  man  of  forty  or  forty-five, 
full  six  feet  high,  wearing  the  elevated  black  cap 
of  the  Greek  Church.  His  face  was  singularly  at- 
tractive and  impressive,  the  features  sharp  cut,  fore- 
head high,  complexion  surprisingly  white  and  pure, 
eyes  dark,  full  of  life  and  full  of  benevolence.  It 
was  a  face  to  fall  in  love  with.  The  expression  of 
his  eye  as  my  glance  met  his  was  winning,  and  his 
whole  appearance  that  of  power  and  saintliness 
combined.  Somewhat  such  a  man  I  think  was  the 
Apostle  John.  It  is  rare  to  meet  one  whose  look 
impresses  you  thus  with  the  thought  that  this  man 
is  not  of  the  world,  worldly.  I  had  prejudices 
against  Greek  monks  and  priests,  for  most  of  those 
that  one  meets  in  Egypt  and  Syria  are  ignorant, 
absolutely  dirty  in  dress  and  person,  and  generally 
objectionable  ;  but  of  this  man  I  said  at  once  he  is 


146       ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

a  typical  Caloyer,  KaXog  yepoc — a  "  beautiful  elder  " 
in  the  Church ;  and  with  a  suddenness,  of  which  I 
doubt  not  you  remember  examples  in  your  experi- 
ence among  men,  I  yielded  myself  to  the  charm 
which  drew  me  towards  him.  It  soon  appeared 
that  he  was  a  man  of  much  learning  as  well  as 
much  experience  among  men,  and  our  conversa- 
tion, commenced  at  the  dinner-table,  continued  on 
deck  until  late  in  the  night. 

Thrown  by  accident  on  a  steamer  loaded  with 
Greek  pilgrims,  he  found  work  to  do,  and  he  did  it 
here  as  everywhere,  on  his  Master's  service.  He 
seemed  at  once  to  know  the  case  of  every  family 
and  group  among  them ;  and  though  many  were 
uncouth  and  by  no  means  gentle  in  their  manners, 
he  was  rapidly  recognized  by  all,  or  most  of  them, 
as  a  good  pastor,  and  was  unwearying  in  his  atten- 
tion, especially  to  the  sick  and  suffering,  of  whom 
there  were  not  a  few.  When  we  came  out  from 
Beyrout  to  run  down  the  Phoenician  coast,  we  met 
a  sirocco,  and  there  is  no  storm  more  trying.  Hot 
and  fierce,  the  wind  seemed  to  cut  off  your  breath 
as  with  a  red-hot  sword,  and  all  day  long  the  blue 
seas  went  over  the  ship,  half-drowning  the  misera- 
ble pilgrims  who  lay  huddled  in  masses  all  over  the 
deck.  It  was  a  brief  luxury  of  rest  when  we  ran 
under  the  lee  of  Mount  Carmel  and  dropped  anch- 
or for  an  hour  or  two  at  Haifa. 

It  is  memorable  now,  in  connection  with  what 


PILGRIMAGE    ENDED  147 

afterwards  occurred,  that  we  talked  that  evening  of 
pilgrimages.  He  was  making  the  pilgrimage.  He 
had  never  seen  Jerusalem,  and  was  now  devoutly 
going  to  the  Sepulchre.  Across  the  plain  of  Es- 
draelon,  which  touches  the  sea  near  Haifa,  we 
looked  at  the  huge  slopes  of  Lebanon,  and  I  tried 
to  point  out  to  him,  among  more  distant  mount- 
ains, the  peaks  of  Tabor  and  Gilboa,  the  hills  that 
are  around  Nazareth,  and  the  dark  summit  of  Lit- 
tle Hermon,  which  looks  down  on  the  blue  beauty 
of  the  Sea  of  Galilee.  And  then  we  talked  of  pil- 
grims in  old  times,  in  all  the  ages,  and  spoke  es- 
pecially of  the  exceeding  bitterness  of  their  disap- 
pointment who,  after  long  journeys  across  Europe 
and  over  the  sea,  reached  the  gates  of  Jerusalem, 
and  when  the  Saracens  forbade  their  entrance,  lay 
down  and  died  under  the  very  walls,  never  having 
seen  the  Sepulchre.         < 

The  sun  went  down  in  white  dust,  the  desert 
sand  of  Arabia  flying  over  the  sea  before  the  siroc- 
co, and  the  ship  again  plunged  into  the  face  of  the 
tempest.  In  the  morning  at  daybreak  we  anchored 
in  the  roadstead  off  Jaffa,  two  miles  or  so  from  the 
shore,  and  the  first  fierce  jerk  of  the  ship  at  her 
chain  threatened  to  hurl  everything  out  of  her. 
What  an  anchorage  that  was !  A  tremendous  sea 
was  running.  Under  ordinary  circumstances  the 
captain  would  not  have  anchored,  but  would  have 
gone  on  with  his  passengers  to  Alexandria,     This 


148  ALONG  NEW   ENGLAND   ROADS 

is  sometimes,  often,  the  luck  of  those  who  seek  to 
reach  Jerusalem.  But  it  lacked  only  a  few  days  of 
the  Greek  Easter,  the  great  day  of  the  pilgrimage, 
and  if  carried  on  to  Egypt,  these  hundreds  of  poor 
pilgrims  would  miss  the  chief  object  of  their  long 
journey.  So  the  good  Austrian  officer  anchored, 
and  fired  cannon  to  tell  the  Jaffa  boatmen  that  it 
was  for  them  to  decide  whether  they  would  take  the 
risk  of  coming  out  through  the  surf  on  the  reef. 
We  rolled  and  plunged  and  waited.  About  nine  or 
ten  o'clock,  the  wind  seeming  to  draw  a  little  more 
directly  off  shore,  the  shore  boats  began  to  appear 
and  disappear,  rising  and  falling  on  the  great  waves 
as  they  came  towards  the  ship,  and  at  length  were 
alongside.  It  was  a  fearful  business  to  get  into 
them,  the  steamer  rolling  over  almost  on  her  beam 
ends  at  every  sea.  With  long  delay  and  much  dan- 
ger, boat  after  boat  received  a  load  of  pilgrims  and 
luggage,  and  one  after  another  went  tossing  shore- 
ward and  safely  passed  the  opening  in  the  reef. 
.  On  board  were  left  fifteen  or  twenty  timid  wom- 
en and  men  who  had  not  dared  the  fearful  descent 
of  the  ship's  ladder,  and  my  friend,  the  priest,  who 
had  remained  to  the  last  to  give  them  all  his  aid 
and  comfort.  There  was  one  queer  little  old  wom- 
an who  passed  the  time  in  alternate  shrieking, 
laughing,  and  crying.  Ten  times  she  essayed  the 
ladder  when  the  ship  rolled  to  port,  and  rushed 
back  or  tumbled  back  on  deck  when  the  angle 


PILGRIMAGE    ENDED  I49 

changed  and  the  bottom  step  was  ten  feet  above 
the  boat.  The  priest  gently  encouraged  her,  but 
in  vain,  and  at  last  a  sailor,  watching  his  chance  as 
she  once  more  shrieked  and  fell  back,  seized  her 
in  his  arms,  rushed  down  the  steps  and  tossed  her 
like  a  bundle  into  the  boat.  She  was  the  last  ex^ 
cept  my  friend.  I  took  his  hand,  and  we  parted 
with  many  Oriental  words  of  peace.  He  reached 
the  boat,  took  his  seat  on  a  bench  in  the  middle, 
and  as  she  swung  across  the  stern  of  the  ship  on  a 
long  wave  he  bared  his  noble  head,  and  with  re- 
peated waves  of  our  hands,  and  words  lost  in  the 
storm,  we  exchanged  the  last  salutations.  He  looked 
like  a  pastor  with  his  flock  around  him.  Calm, 
silent,  his  forehead  swept  with  the  fierce  sirocco 
wind  which  he  was  facing,  I  followed  them  with 
my  eyes,  now  on  wave  tops,  now  wholly  lost  to 
sight.  At  length  I  used  my  glass — a  fine  marine 
glass — it  lies  here  to-night  on  the  cabin  table — and 
with  that  I  kept  them  steadily  in  view.  The  reef 
was  a  white  wall  of  foam  dashing  high  into  the  air. 
As  they  approached  a  narrow  opening  where  a 
darker  sea  indicated  the  passage,  the  waves  grew 
shorter.  Their  boat  appeared  and  vanished  in 
quick  succession.  "Are  they  past  the  opening?" 
"  I  cannot  tell ;  I  think  they  are  just  in  it.  The 
sea  is  awful."  And  the  words  were  not  uttered 
when  in  the  field  of  my  glass  I  saw  a  terrible  vision. 
The  boat  was  lifted  on  a  mass  of  water,  it  rose  high, 


ISO       ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

and  then  suddenly  I  saw  the  bow  thrown  up,  a 
hideous  confusion  of  men  and  women  and  children 
among  oars  and  baggage  were  hurled  into  the  white 
surf  on  the  reef,  which  leaped  into  the  air  trium- 
phant, and  I  saw  no  more  of  them ;  only  the  upturned 
boat,  floating,  and  tossed  now  and  then  into  full 
view,  swept  northward  along  the  shore,  and  finally 
went  on  the  sandy  beach  in  the  breakers  a  half- 
mile  north  of  the  northern  wall  of  the  city. 

So  seeking  Jerusalem  that  is  below,  before  his 
pilgrim  sandals  had  yet  touched  the  soil  of  the  be- 
loved land,  my  newly-made  and  newly-lost  friend, 
the  good  priest,  found  Jerusalem  that  is  above, 
the  mother  of  us  all. 

I  have  thought  of  him  a  thousand  times  since 
then,  most  frequently  when  in  the  forest  on  windy 
nights.  In  the  roar  of  the  mountain  storm  which 
rages  around  the  cabin,  mingled  with  the  shrieks  of 
the  forest  trees  writhing  and  intertwining  their  giant 
arms,  I  recall  that  pale,  calm  face  and  commanding 
form  as  the  boat  sweeps  shoreward  on  the  great 
seas  of  the  Mediterranean;  and  while  I  see  him 
wave  his  hand,  I  can  hear  again  and  again  and 
again,  as  I  could  not  then  hear  what  I  knew  he  was 
saying,  Salame,  salame,  salame,  "Peace,  peace,  peace." 
And  I  know  that  in  every  tempest,  on  land  or  sea, 
the  war  of  the  elements  is  but  a  little  agitation 
which  to  our  weak  sense  seems  great.  The  mount- 
ain stands  calm,  though  my  cabin  shakes  in  the 


PILGRIMAGE   ENDED  151 

Storm,  and  the  surroundings  which  I  have  made 
seem  ready  to  be  swept  away.  And  the  Peace  of 
Jerusalem — the  peace  that  passes  our  understand- 
ing— the  peace  whose  blessing  he  gave  me  across 
the  sea  when  he  waved  his  white  hand  to  me  in  the 
sirocco  blast  —  that  peace  is  more  calm  than  the 
mountain,  more  enduring  than  sea  and  shore,  and 
abides  forever  in  the  City  of  Peace  whither  he  went 
that  morning  through  the  tempest. 


XV 
NON-RESISTANCE 

It  is  very  difficult  for  the  honest  advocate  of  the 
doctrine  of  non-resistance  to  live  up  to  his  princi- 
ples. The  duty  of  self-defence,  the  divinely-or- 
dained right  of  the  master  of  the  house  to  forbid 
the  spoiling  of  his  goods,  the  self-evident  law  which 
commands  every  one  to  defend  the  weak  against 
the  oppressing  strong,  these  are  requirements  which 
a  man  may  honestly  try  to  ignore,  but  which,  unless 
he  be  a  coward,  he  will  never  succeed  in  ignoring 
when  the  trial  of  his  faith  comes.  The  sturdy  non- 
resistant,  sturdy  of  soul  as  of  body,  who  has  yes- 
terday defended  a  little  child  from  the  attack  of  a 
dog,  will  to-day  defend  the  same  child  from  the  at- 
tack of  a  brute  in  shape  of  man,  and  to-morrow  will 
defend  his  country  and  government  against  ene- 
mies. 

In  one  of  the  villages  through  which  we  drove 
yesterday  was  once  a  society  called  a  non-resistance 
society.  Its  members  were  men  and  women,  good, 
honest,  well-meaning  people  all  of  them.  Its  history 
was  brief,  but  not  altogether  uneventful.     It  was 


NON-RESISTANCE  1 53 

Strong  in  its  principles,  but  it  was  from  time  to  time 
enfeebled  by  the  failures  of  its  members  in  prac- 
tical life ;  and  when  at  last  the  Civil  War  began  it 
ceased  to  exist,  because  some  of  its  members 
went  to  fight  for  the  Union,  and  all  the  others  en- 
couraged them  to  go  and  rejoiced  in  their  pa- 
triotism. 

While  it  existed,  and  indeed  long  before  it  was 
organized,  Jabez  Dickinson  was  known  in  the  whole 
town  as  a  steadfast  advocate  of  the  doctrine  of 
submission  without  forcible  resistance. 

He  was  the  village  merchant,  kept  the  village 
store,  where  he  sold  everything  from  silk  ribbons 
to  tallow  candles  and  sugar  candies.  He  was  not 
a  deacon,  but  he  was  always  named  and  known  as 
Deacon  Jabe,  because  there  was  never  known  a 
man  who  more  firmly,  boldly,  and  consistently  as- 
serted and  practiced  the  doctrines  of  the  Christian 
life.  Universally  loved  and  respected  by  the  peo- 
ple, old  and  young,  he  had  led  a  long  life  of  peace 
and  quiet,  doing  good  and  getting  good.  And  dur- 
ing this  life  he  had  been  an  unwavering  non-resist- 
ant. He  was  not  much  of  a  talker.  He  seldom 
preached.  But  in  the  store,  where  it  was  the  cus- 
tom of  the  men  of  the  community  to  gather,  espe- 
cially on  Saturday  evenings,  the  nickname  deacon 
had  been  given  to  him  for  years,  and  thence  had 
travelled  through  the  community.  Seldom  volun- 
teering opinions,  he  was  often  appealed  to  for  the 


154       ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

decision  of  mooted  questions.  And  if  you  do  not 
know  it,  I  can  tell  you  that  in  the  country  store 
there  are  daily  discussions  of  questions,  moral,  phil- 
osophical, religious,  and  practical,  in  which  at  least 
as  much  average  good  sound  sense  and  logical 
power  is  developed  as  in  any  meeting  of  any  of  the 
modern  scientific  associations,  British  or  American. 
Always,  however.  Deacon  Jabe  had  laid  down  and 
adhered  to  his  non-resistance  principles,  and  this 
in  the  face  of  much  provocation  to  think  and  act 
otherwise.  Many  indignities  he  had  suffered  from 
fellows  of  the  baser  sort,  insults  and  personal 
wrongs,  always  taking  them  meekly  and  without 
resentment.  In  all  the  town  there  was  but  one 
supporter  of  his  radical  views,  and  he  often  wished 
he  was  free  from  that  ally ;  for  Miss  Almira  Smith 
was  a  cantankerous  talker  and  fighter,  doing  with 
her  tongue  a  perpetual  war,  offensive  and  defensive, 
while  she  proclaimed  the  sinfulness  of  physical  of- 
fence or  defence  with  any  other  muscles  or  member 
of  the  human  body.  For,  after  all,  it  is  but  a  ques- 
tion of  muscles,  and  the  non-resistant  who  forbids 
blows  with  the  fist  is  often  a  conscientious  dealer 
of  deadly  blows  with  the  voice. 

The  deacon  had  received  much  and  sore  provo- 
cation that  week  from  Silas  Maxwell,  the  town  bully, 
a  fellow  of  powerful  structure,  who  rejoiced  in  his 
ability  to  whip  any  man  in  the  county.  And  he 
had  fought  many  battles,  not  in  sport,  with  invaria- 


NON-RESISTANCE  1 55 

ble  victory.  My  story  would  be  too  long  were  I 
to  recite  the  talk  on  Saturday  evening  in  the  store 
when  Silas  nagged  Jabez  and  insulted  him  again 
and  again,  presuming,  and  boasting  that  he  pre- 
sumed, on  the  deacon's  non-resistance,  which  Silas 
said  was  nothing  but  cowardice.  "  He  don't  resist 
bekase  he  daresent  resist,"  said  the  bully,  walking 
across  the  store  and  helping  himself  to  a  chunk  of 
tobacco,  at  the  same  moment  opening  a  huge  knife 
wherewith  to  cut  off  a  mouthful. 

Little  Katie  Wheeler  was  the  deacon's  grand- 
daughter, a  lovely  child,  the  joy  of  his  life,  sole  de- 
scendant of  his  dead  wife  and  daughter.  Katie 
was  a  sad  invalid,  but  she  had  a  well  mind,  never 
ill,  never  sickly.  All  day  long  she  was  in  and  out 
of  the  store,  always  breezy  and  cheery,  making  per- 
petual spring-time  in  the  life  of  the  lonesome  man. 
Her  little  chair  stood  where  in  the  evenings  she  sat 
till  her  grandfather  closed  the  door  and  she  walked 
home  with  him.  Every  one  loved  Katie — even  Silas 
Maxwell,  brute  though  he  was.  As  Silas  took  the 
tobacco  in  his  hand,  Katie  sprang  from  her  chair 
and  snatched  it  away  from  him,  saying,  "  Silas 
Maxwell,  you  sha'n't  steal  granther's  tobacco  any 
more."  The  child's  impulsive  act  and  clear  ring- 
ing voice  were  greeted  with  a  shout  from  the  fifteen 
or  twenty  villagers  in  the  store.  The  act,  the  word 
"steal,"  and  the  approving  shout  roused  the  devil 
in  Silas,  and,  seizing  Katie  by  the  arm,  he  uttered 


156       ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

a  brutal  oath  as  he  raised  his  right  hand  with  the 
open  knife  to  strike. 

Jabez  had  kept  his  eye  on  the  man,  and  up  to 
this  instant  had  been  struggling  to  keep  down  what 
he  believed  to  be  his  sinful  desire  to  silence  the 
other's  insolence  with  earthly  weapons.  Now,  as 
he  saw  the  knife  raised,  he  was  a  converted  man. 
Well  was  it  for  Katie  that  her  grandfather  in  the 
long-forgotten  days  of  his  sinful  youth  had  been 
mighty  in  battle,  power  residing  in  the  muscles  of 
his  arms  and  shoulders,  for  which  he  had  been  fa- 
mous when  Silas  Maxwell  was  a  child.  The  dea- 
con's legs  were  like  steel  springs,  and  without  wait- 
ing for  his  mind  to  direct  them,  they  of  their  own 
free  will  launched  him  like  a  rock  from  a  catapult 
across  the  store.  The  shoulder  and  arm  acted 
next,  for  the  deacon  always  declared  that  it  was  the 
physical  body  God  had  given  him  which  acted  for 
itself  when  the  closed  fist  dealt  on  the  bridge  of 
Silas  Maxwell's  nose  an  awful  blow.  The  bully 
reeled  backward  one,  two,  three  short  steps  and  fell, 
full  length,  over  a  keg  of  nails. 

Jabez  stood  silent,  while  Silas  gathered  himself 
up.  He  knew  what  was  coming,  and  now  he  rea- 
soned within  himself,  swiftly  but  sufficiently.  And 
when  the  huge  fellow  rushed  at  him  intent  on 
crushing  him,  the  old  skill  (he  said  it  was  learned 
in  the  devil's  service)  now  came  to  him  for  the 
Lord's  service  in  the  defence  of  himself  and  the 


NON-RESISTANCE  1 57 

child  and  the  just  punishment  of  that  ruffian.  Silas 
Maxwell  had  for  the  first  time  met  his  master. 
Those  trip-hammer  blows  of  Jabez  Dickinson's  tre- 
mendous fist  live  in  the  village  traditions.  There 
were  but  three,  or  at  the  most  four,  of  them,  with 
the  right  arm  first,  with  the  left  arm  second,  the 
other  arm  stopping  the  puny  thrusts  of  the  bully. 
And  so  it  came  about  that  Jabez  drove  Silas  across 
the  store  till  he  stood  with  his  back  to  the  window, 
open  to  the  floor.  When  he  had  him  there  he 
dealt  one  more  and  final  blow,  right  between  the 
big  man's  eyes,  a  blow  backed  up  with  a  continu- 
ous thrust  from  all  the  weight  of  his  body,  which 
threw  the  ruffian  off  his  feet,  heels  overhead  through 
the  window.  The  mill-race  ran  close  under  that 
window.  The  deacon  knew  it,  and  had  been  think- 
ing of  it  all  the  forty  seconds  or  less  between  the 
first  rush  of  Silas  and  his  final  exit.  "  Go  out, 
some  on  ye,  and  take  him  out.  I  kinder  think  he's 
got  enough  of  it,"  said  Jabez,  very  calmly,  as  he 
sat  down  and  took  Katie  on  his  knees  and  kissed 
her. 

There  was  silence  and  awe  in  the  store  for  a  few 
moments.  Then  some  one  came  in  and  said  that 
Silas  reckoned  he  had  got  enough,  and  had  gone 
home.  Silas  was  converted  then  and  thencefor- 
ward. 

Not  so  the  deacon.  He  was,  like  all  non-resist- 
ants under  like  circumstances,  in  some  danger  of 


158      ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

relapse  into  his  old  folly.  I  have  not  space  to  re- 
late at  length  how  his  new  sentiments  became  fixed. 
It  came  about  in  this  way:  Miss  Smith  made  a 
descent  on  him  the  next  day  and  poured  out  on 
him  the  vials  of  her  peculiarly  unpleasant  wrath  for 
"goin'  back  on  non-resistance."  He  listened  in 
silence.  Again  and  again,  and  again,  alone  and  in 
presence  of  whatever  people  might  be  in  the  store, 
that  inexpressible  and  intolerable  female  rated  Ja- 
bez.  And  Jabez  became  hardened.  At  last  he 
deliberately  made  up  his  mind  that  resistance  to 
a  male  bully  like  Silas  had  been  a  religious  duty, 
and,  as  a  corollary,  that  resistance,  duly  measured 
for  the  case,  to  a  female  bully  like  Almira  Smith, 
would  be  a  virtue.  So  he  prepared  a  trap,  and  one 
day  when  Almira  was  coming  down  the  street,  and 
Jabez  knew  that  her  entrance  and  assault  on  him 
were  as  certain  as  foreordination,  he  set  the  trap. 

"  Jabez,"  said  the  sharp  voice,  as  its  owner  en- 
tered the  store,  "Jabez  Dickinson,"  it  repeated,  as 
she  crossed  the  floor.  "  Look  out,  Almiry,"  said 
the  deacon ;  "  stop  jist  there  or  you'll  spill  some- 
thin'  !" 

"What  are  you  talkin'  about,  Deacon  Jabez 
Dickinson,"  said  the  keen,  piercing  voice.  "  I've 
come  in  because  I  can't  find  it  in  me  to  pass  by 
without  warnin'  you — "  At  that  moment  there 
descended  around  Almira  Smith  a  cloud  of  fine 
black  pepper.    It  began  gently,  and  she  interrupted 


NON-RESISTANCE  1 59 

her  tirade  with  a  sneeze.  She  tried  to  resume,  but 
the  more  she  tried  the  more  she  sneezed,  and  the 
clouds  gathered  thicker  around  her.  Sneezing  and 
dignity  are  incompatible.  Continuous  sneezing  is 
incompatible  with  self-respect  or  self- admiration. 
Almira  had  no  idea  of  charging  her  convulsive 
affliction  to  the  deacon's  new  doctrine  of  resist- 
ance to  vocal  and  other  physical  assaults.  She 
abandoned  the  field;  she  sneezed  along  the  road 
home ;  she  sneezed  all  night. 

And  Jabez  chuckled,  and  kept  his  secret,  and 
lived,  and  is  living  now,  a  sensible  man.  *'  Ye  see," 
he  said,  in  confidence,  "  I  could  'a'  stood  Silas,  and 
if  he'd  'a'  come  back  I'd  'a'  told  him  I  was  sorry, 
Silas  came  in,  and  before  I  got  a  chance  he  told  me 
he  was  sorry,  and  I  kind  o'  concluded  I  had  been 
doin'  right.  But  the  nat'ral  man  couldn't  stand 
Almiry  Smith." 


XVI 
SONGS  OF  THE  AGES 

I  HAD  driven  into  the  village  the  evening  before. 
I  knew  no  one  there.  The  inn  was  clean  and  neat ; 
the  stable  was  good ,  my  horses  and  myself  had  a 
quiet  Sunday  rest.  In  the  church  in  the  morning 
was  the  usual  slim  congregation,  thirty  or  forty  peo- 
ple. Notice  was  given  of  a  "  service  of  song  "  at 
the  school-house  in  the  evening. 

It  was  a  small  room,  and  crowded.  The  kero- 
sene lamps  gave  a  dim  light  and  a  vile  smell. 
There  were  more  people  there  than  had  been  in 
the  church  in  the  morning.  The  room  was  very 
hot.  A  lady  presided  at  the  melodeon,  facing  the 
assembly.  For  a  while  she  led,  by  playing  one  and 
another  tune  of  her  own  selection.  Then  she  asked 
any  one  to  propose  hymns  or  songs,  and  voices 
would  be  heard  calling  out  this  or  that  page  of  the 
hymn  or  song  book  they  were  using.  When  a  page 
was  so  called  she  would  at  once  turn  to  it,  and 
they  sang  together;  it  was  good  singing.  They 
knew  the  words  and  tunes,  and  sang  with  spirit 
and  appreciation.     There  were  some  harsh,  some 


SONGS   OF   THE   AGES  l6l 

reedy,  some  sweet  voices.  All  together  were  me- 
lodious. It  was  a  pity,  as  it  is  everywhere  in  the 
north  country,  that  the  words  they  sang  were  most- 
ly doggerel  rhymes  which  have  become  popular  of 
late  years,  and  have  demoralized  the  hymnology  of 
many  parts  of  the  country. 

At  length  the  lady  left  the  melodeon,  and  a  man's 
voice  broke  the  temporary  silence  which  followed. 
He  was  praying.  I  sat  near  the  door,  and  could 
see  no  faces.  No  one  knelt  or  bowed  a  head.  It 
is  not  the  custom  up  there.  His  prayer  was  short, 
simple  in  diction,  several  times  ungrammatical,  but 
it  was  heard,  I  doubt  not,  for  it  was  earnest,  elo- 
quent, beseeching  in  its  tone ;  the  prayer  of  one 
who  felt  deeply  the  load  of  this  world's  weariness, 
and  whose  faith  was  absolute  in  the  promise  of  his 
Master,  which  he  cited :  "  Thou  didst  say  that  if 
we  would  come  to  Thee  we  should  have  rest.  Give 
us  rest,  O  Lord !     Amen." 

Then  there  was  silence  again,  and  a  woman's 
voice  broke  it.  It  was  not  a  pleasant  voice.  It 
was  somewhat  nasal,  a  little  sharp  and  shaky,  and 
perhaps  querulous  in  tone.  She  only  sang  a  word 
or  two  alone,  and  then  another,  and  then  all  the 
gathering  joined  her  in  that  wonderful  hymn,  "Art 
thou  weary,  art  thou  languid  ?" 

There  was  something  very  moving,  very  thrilling 
in  the  utterance  of  the  hymn  by  that  group  of  up- 
country  people.    They  were  one  and  all  hard-work- 


1 62  ALONG  NEW   ENGLAND   ROADS 

ing  men  and  women,  to  whom  life  is  the  perpetua- 
tion of  the  curse — labor  for  bread.  The  touching 
words  m  which  Dr.  Neale  clothed  the  sentiment  of 
the  hymn  entered  into  their  souls.  There  was  all 
the  eloquence  of  which  the  human  voice  is  capable 
in  the  way  they  sang,  with  suppressed,  inquiring, 
almost  doubting  voice, 

"  If  I  still  hold  closely  to  Him, 
What  hath  He  at  last?" 

and  a  swelling  triumph  of  assurance  as  they  poured 
out  the  response, 

"Sorrow  vanquished,  labor  ended, 
Jordan  passed !" 

Music  is  not  to  be  measured  by  any  arbitrary 
rules  of  the  musical  world.  I  have  often  heard 
vesper  song  in  St.  Peters.  I  have  heard  a  Te 
Deum  in  Notre  Dame,  sung  to  God  —  and  to 
the  emperor  and  empress.  There  was  never  mu- 
sic which  ascended  to  Heaven  more  musical 
than  that  song  in  the  little  New  Hampshire  school- 
house. 

As  I  walked  along  the  dark  country  road  in  a 
drizzling  rain,  stumbling  over  stones,  and  once 
bringing  up  short  against  the  end  of  an  open  gate, 
I  heard  the  voices  of  young  people  coming  behind 
me.  One  said :  "  Girls,  who  wrote  that  last  hymn 
we  sung  ?"    "  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  another. 


SONGS   OF   THE  AGES  1 63 

It  was  not  exactly  the  thing  for  a  stranger  to  speak 
out  in  the  darkness  and  tell  them.  But  I  went  on 
to  my  inn,  thinking  on  this  wise  : 

It  is  the  fashion  to  speak  ill  of  the  ages  called 
Dark  Ages.  By  reason  of  the  bitterness  of  theolog- 
ical controversy  the  Protestant  world  is  very  gen- 
erally imbued  with  the  idea  that  for  a  long  and 
somewhat  indefinite  period  before  the  sixteenth 
century  the  European  world  and  all  the  rest  of  the 
world  was  in  a  state  of  sin  and  iniquity ;  degraded 
in  intelligence,  in  arts  and  in  religion ;  that  every- 
body went  to  the  bad.  The  myth  of  the  Dark 
Ages  is  still  believed  in. 

Out  of  those  ages  we  have  an  abundant  brilliant 
literature,  as  glorious  art,  as  pure  religion  as  our 
own  age  can  boast.  There  was  no  more  darkness 
then  than  now.  There  were  weak  men  and  great 
men,  good  men  and  wicked  men,  in  the  church  and 
out  of  it,  then  as  now. 

It  is  the  fashion  to  ridicule  the  hermits  and 
monks  of  the  early  ages.  There  were  dirty  hermits 
and  dirty  monks  abhorring  water  and  rejoicing  in 
uncleanliness.  We  meet  such  men,  called  clergy  in 
Roman  and  in  Protestant  churches,  nowadays.  But 
there  were  monks  and  hermits  of  another  sort, 
too,  as  there  are  Roman  and  Protestant  clergymen 
now,  men  of  holy  life  and  labor,  whose  works  have 
followed  and  will  follow  them  on  earth  and  forever 
hereafter. 


164       ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

From  the  dark  road  through  the  little  New  Hamp- 
shire village  my  vision  went  to  a  great  gorge  in  the 
mountains  where  the  Kedron  pours  its  floods  in  the 
rainy  season,  plunging  downward  from  Jerusalem 
to  the  Dead  Sea.  The  rocky  walls  of  the  narrow 
gorge,  broken  and  irregular,  rise  two  or  three  hun- 
dred feet  above  the  noisy  bed  of  the  stream.  Here, 
in  caverns  and  hollows  of  the  rocks,  perching  like 
eagles  on  the  sides  of  the  chasm,  one  and  another 
man,  weary  of  the  world,  came  and  made  for  him- 
self a  hermitage,  a  hole,  with  what  shelter  the  over- 
hanging cliff  might  give  him.  After  a  while  path- 
ways, difficult  and  dangerous,  along  the  ledges,  led 
from  one's  miserable  abode  to  that  of  another.  So 
a  community  was  formed,  a  sort  of  hermit  village, 
and  its  fame  went  abroad ;  for  there  were  great 
men,  learned  men,  noble  men,  who  gave  up  the 
world  and  sought  repose  and  oblivion  in  the  gorge 
of  the  Kedron.  Thus  grew  the  famed  monastery 
of  St.  Sabas,  once  the  most  powerful  monastery  in 
the  Eastern  Church.  Here  in  the  eighth  century 
came  John  of  Damascus,  last  and  not  least  of  the 
Greek  Fathers  of  the  Church  ;  and  Cosmas  of  Jeru- 
salem, Cosmas  the  melodious,  poet  and  holy  man, 
whose  songs  are  sung  in  all  lands  where  Christians 
sing.  And  with  them  was  one  Stephen,  of  whom  we 
know  little  more  than  that  he  was  a  Sabaite,  and 
hence  is  called  St.  Stephen  the  Sabaite.  These  all 
wrote  in  Greek.     St.  John   Damascene  wrote  the 


SONGS   OF   THE  AGES  165 

"  Resurrection    Hymn,"  which   is   known    in    Dr. 
Neale's  translation : 

' '  From  death  to  life  eternal, 
From  earth  unto  the  sky. 
Our  Christ  hath  brought  us  over 
With  hymns  of  victory." 

I  wonder  who  was  Stephen.  He  lived  long,  long 
ago — more  than  a  thousand  years  ago.  He  was  a 
man,  and  therefore  he  had  sorrow  and  labor,  and 
was  heavy  laden.  He  found  rest,  remembering  the 
Master's  invitation.  He  remembered  the  very  words 
of  it,  as  St.  Matthew  had  recorded  them,  "  Come 
unto  me  all  ye  that  labor ;"  KOTrioyreg  was  the  word, 
"Ye  laboring  ones."  He  wrote  an  exquisitely 
simple  and  beautiful  song  beginning  Koirov  re  kui 
Kafxarov:  "labor  and  weariness" — and  it  touched 
the  hearts  of  the  good  Christians  of  that  and  all 
the  after  ages  in  the  Eastern  Church.  Yes,  my 
friend,  there  were  good  Christians  in  the  Eastern 
and  in  the  Western  Church,  in  all  those  times. 
Shake  off  the  superstition  that  has  enthralled  you 
about  the  Church,  and  don't  any  longer  imagine 
that  all  the  people  that  have  lived  in  Europe  from 
apostolic  times  down  to  Luther's  day  are  damned. 
You  may  find  in  heaven  as  large  a  proportion  of 
souls  out  of  what  you  call  the  Dark  Ages  as  out  of 
this  age.  There  is  no  more  sign  of  the  millennium 
now  than  there  was  then. 


x66       ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

It  was  not  a  great  many  years  ago  that  Dr.  Neale 
translated,  or  perhaps  rather  reproduced  the  senti- 
ment of  the  hymn  of  Stephen  the  Sabaite  in  our 
tongue.  And  it  entered  the  hearts  of  English 
speaking  and  singing  and  praying  people,  and 
touched  the  hearts  of  many  who  had  not  sung  or 
prayed  before ;  so  that  now  all  over  the  world  they 
sing: 

"  Art  thou  weary,  art  thou  languid. 
Art  thou  sore  distressed  ? 
'  Come  to  me, '  saith  One.  and  coming, 
Be  at  rest!" 

I  do  not  think  there  is  any  subject  more  worthy 
the  philosopher's  consideration  than  this  presented 
to  me  in  the  school-house  in  a  New  Hampshire  vil- 
lage by  the  dim  light  of  two  kerosene  lamps,  listen- 
ing to  the  voices  of  weary  men  and  women  singing 
the  song  which  Stephen  the  Sabaite  wrote,  a  thou- 
sand years  ago,  in  the  deep  gorge  where  the  Ked- 
ron  pierces  the  wilderness,  hurrying  down  to  the 
Sea  of  Death,  If  I  did  not  believe  in  any  God  I 
should  feel  bound  to  inquire  into  that  sameness  of 
human  character,  suffering,  wearying,  wanting — the 
same  in  old  Palestine,  the  same  in  Russia,  Greece, 
Asia,  Europe,  America,  and  that  oneness  with  which 
the  monks  of  St.  Sabas  and  the  young  girls  of  New 
Hampshire  hold  firm  and  unwavering  the  faith  that 
was  delivered  to  the  saints. 


XVII 

IGNOTUS 

The  road  was  across  an  open  country.  The  hills 
which  skirted  the  western  horizon  were  wooded  to 
their  summits ;  only  one  massive  peak  of  bare  rock 
rose  above  the  fringe  of  trees  and  stood  out  strong 
and  almost  black  against  the  evening  sky.  The 
valley  through  which  I  was  driving  was  very  rich 
and  fruitful.  The  farms  were  well  kept,  the  farm- 
houses neat  and  comfortable,  the  barns  and  out- 
houses indicating  by  their  appearance  the  thrifty 
character  of  the  agricultural  population.  There 
was  for  several  miles  no  house  which  did  not  stand 
in  a  group  of  trees,  whose  great  trunks  and  spread- 
ing branches  were  proof  of  considerable  age  in  the 
home  location  under  their  shade.  At  length  I 
came  where  on  each  side  of  the  road  was  a  row  of 
elms,  large  old  trees,  and  soon  to  a  group  of  houses. 
The  road  widened  and  parted  into  two  roads,  with 
a  broad  green  between  them.  The  elms  were  more 
abundant,  scattered  here  and  there  on  the  green. 
A  small  church,  with  rows  of  horse-sheds  behind  it, 
a  house  which  could  not  be  mistaken  for  any  other 


1 68       ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

than  the  parsonage,  a  store  in  front  of  which  hung 
the  sign  "  Post-office,"  and  about  a  dozen  other 
houses  formed  the  village. 

Before  we  reached  the  church  the  road  passed 
the  church-yard.  A  low  stone-wall  separated  it 
from  the  road-side  foot-path.  It  was  easy,  as  the 
horses  walked,  to  read  the  inscriptions  on  many 
headstones.  It  is  always  interesting  to  do  this, 
for  the  mere  sake  of  the  names,  both  the  surnames 
and  the  Christian  names,  I  have  given  you  lists 
of  peculiar  names  thus  perpetuated,  which  I  have 
found  in  country  graveyards.  One  acquires  the 
habit  of  catching  a  name  quickly,  even  at  a  distance 
and  on  a  discolored  stone.  So  as  we  passed  along 
I  read  aloud  one  and  another  and  another  name, 
most  of  them  old  Bible  names,  now  and  then  a 
strange  name,  doubtless  a  home  invention, 

I  read  aloud  Samuel,  Hepzibah,  Bezaleel,  Marina, 
Isaiah,  Ichabod,  Ignotus — ,  and  as  I  read  the  last 
name  I  said  "  Whoa"  to  the  horses.  Surely  that 
could  not  be  a  man's  name,  I  leaped  over  the  low 
wall  and  went  to  the  grave  which  was  near  it.  The 
stone  was  a  low,  black-slate  slab,  on  which  green 
and  gray  lichens  were  growing  in  such  density  that 
the  original  color  was  invisible  except  near  the  top 
where  the  slab  was  cleaned,  evidently  with  care,  so 
as  to  leave  the  word  "Ignotus"  plainly  legible. 
And  there  was  no  other  word  on  the  stone. 

Of  course  I  was  interested  in  this ;  and  you  will 


IGNOTUS  169 

readily  imagine  the  succession  of  thoughts  which  it 
aroused.  At  first  I  took  it  to  be  the  grave  of  one 
who,  possibly  knowing  of  the  celebrated  Miserimus 
inscription,  had  directed  the  expression  of  utmost 
humility  to  be  placed  over  his  ashes.  While  I  was 
pondering  on  this  an  elderly  gentleman  came  along 
the  road,  and  seeing  where  I  was  standing,  paused 
at  the  wall.  As  I  looked  up  he  fixed  his  eyes  on 
me  with  an  expression  which  said  as  plainly  as 
words  could  say,  "  You  would  like  to  know  what 
that  inscription  means  ?"  I  took  him  at  his  word — 
or  at  his  eyes — and  said,  "  Can  you  tell  me  any- 
thing about  this  stone  ?" 

"  Everything  about  the  stone,"  was  the  reply, 
"very  little  about  the  dust  that  lies  below  it." 

"  Then  no  one  knows  whose  grave  this  is  ?" 

"  Precisely  so.  The  inscription  and  the  grave- 
mound  together  tell  all  that  can  be  told.  The 
mound  is  long.  The  inscription  is  in  the  mascu- 
line. The  two  tell  you  that  an  unknown  man  lies 
below." 

"  May  I  ask  who  ordered  the  stone  and  the  in- 
scription— for  I  fancy  most  if  not  all  the  other  in- 
scriptions here  are  in  the  English  language  ?" 

"  Yes,  most  of  them ;  not  always  the  best  of 
English.  I  had  this  stone  cut  and  set  here.  The 
stone-cutter  didn't  understand  it.  As  a  rule  the 
people  around  here  don't  know  what  it  means. 
Pardon  me.     I  should  introduce  myself.     I  am  the 


17©  ALONG   NEW   ENGLAND    ROADS 

pastor  of  these  people.  Most  of  the  sleepers  here- 
abouts were  of  my  flock.  The  living  are  my  care 
now.     These  are  in  God's  care." 

"  And  this  man — he  was  not  of  your  flock,  I  take 
it  ?" 

"  No  and  yes.  If  the  shepherd  find  a  stray 
sheep  in  ill  condition,  he  should  surely  care  for  the 
poor  beast,  and  make  it  one  of  his  flock  till  it  goes 
to  its  master.  So  it  was  with  this  man  and  myself. 
He  came  into  the  village  one  dark  night  forty  years 
ago.  He  was  ragged,  dirty,  old.  There  was  a  tav- 
ern then  over  yonder.  The  landlord .  found  him 
lying  on  the  ground  in  front  of  his  door.  He  was 
a  good  Samaritan,  my  old  friend  Hezekiah  Bolter  ; 
yonder  is  his  grave.  God  give  him  rest !  He  took 
the  man  in  and  sent  for  the  doctor,  and  the  doctor 
sent  for  me.  But  the  man  was  past  help  from 
either  of  us.  He  showed  no  signs  of  conscious- 
ness until  after  some  powerful  stimulus  which  the 
doctor  administered.  Then  he  murmured  a  little. 
But  he  never  opened  his  eyes.  We  stayed  by  him 
for  hours.  His  murmurs  took  the  form  of  short 
sentences,  and  these  sentences  were  Latin.  When 
they  were  complete  I  recognized  some  of  them. 
They  were  familiar  passages,  now  from  Virgil,  now 
Horace,  now  Juvenal.  Were  these  memories  of  his 
boyhood,  or  were  they  the  utterances  of  a  mind  fa- 
miliar, as  a  teacher's  might  be,  with  the  Latin  authors 
used  in  schools  and  colleges  ?     We  did  not  discuss 


IGNOTUS  J71 

the  matter  then,  but  much  afterwards  ;  and  while 
the  doctor  maintained  that  the  man  was  probably  a 
teacher,  I  held  to  the  theory  that  he  was  recalling 
memories,  quoting  passages  which  he  had  not 
thought  of  for  years.  We  had,  neither  of  us,  any- 
thing on  which  to  base  our  arguments ;  which  is  all 
the  better  for  freedom  of  discussion.  He  died  be- 
fore morning.  There  was  nothing  in  the  pockets 
of  his  ragged  clothing.  We  could  learn  nothing 
about  him,  and  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to 
bury  him.  I  ordered  the  stone ;  the  doctor  paid 
for  it." 

Such  was  in  brief,  almost  in  full,  the  narrative 
which  the  good  old  man  gave  me,  as  we  walked 
along  to  the  gate  by  the  side  of  the  church,  he  on 
the  outside,  I  on  the  inside  of  the  wall.  We  met 
at  the  gate,  and  I  ventured  there  to  take  his  hand. 
The  words  he  had  spoken  were  a  simple  story,  but 
there  was  a  quaintness  and  earnestness  in  his  tones 
which  had  quite  won  me.  I  am  not  sure  that  there 
are  many  pastors  now  (I  know  there  is  one)  whom 
you  would  expect  to  hear  of  as  staying  all  night  by 
the  side  of  a  dying  pauper,  hoping  for  one  interval 
of  consciousness  wherein  he  might  give  to  the  poor 
soul  light  for  the  dark  road  on  which  it  was  travel- 
ling. I  ventured  somewhat  more,  after  I  had  taken 
his  hand.  I  said,  "  And  when  you  buried  him  you 
prayed  for  him." 

"  Why  do  you  think  that  ?" 


172       ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

"  Because  just  now  you  prayed  for  the  repose  of 
the  soul  of  Hezekiah  Bolter." 

"Ah,  so  I  did;  and  so  I  do  very  often.  What 
would  be  the  lonesomeness,  what  would  be  the  in- 
tolerable bereavement  of  this  life  of  mine,  of  life  in 
this  world  for  you  or  me  or  any  one,  if  we  believed 
the  dead  were  all  gone  out  of  the  universe  of  God, 
out  of  his  reach,  into  an  unknown  domain  where 
they  do  not  need  a  God,  and  prayer  is  vain.  I  have 
been  in  the  cure  of  souls  here  for  almost  fifty  years. 
The  catalogue  of  those  for  whom  it  has  been  my 
duty  to  labor  and  to  pray  is  larger  on  these  stones 
and  in  these  unmarked  graves  than  in  my  list  of 
the  living.  I  never  gave  them  up  while  they  were 
here.  I  never  gave  up  praying  for  them  when  they 
went  out  of  the  reach  of  my  care." 

"  And  it  seems  to  me  you  care  somewhat  for  their 
graves.  I  suppose  it  is  your  care  which  has  kept 
that  word  "  Ignotus  "  so  legible." 

"Yes.  I  have  never  passed  that  grave  without 
saying  to  myself,  *  Ignotus,  Ignotus ;  who  was  he, 
who  is  he,  where  did  he  go  ?  I  don't  know,  but 
God  knows.     Lord  have  mercy  on  him  !'  " 

As  I  drove  on  in  the  gathering  twilight  I  consid- 
ered what  I  had  heard.  There  was  something  very 
pathetic  in  the  story  of  the  ragged  wanderer  who 
had  left  all  that  had  been  his  in  some  part  of  the 
world  and  died  unknown.  But  it  is  much  the  same 
with  all  of  us.     It  is  only  a  question  of  time  how 


IGNOTUS  173 

soon  the  memory  of  every  man's  name  and  the 
place  of  his  burial  will  be  forgotten.  If  you  look 
back  two  hundred  years  you  will  astonish  yourself 
by  finding  how  few  graves  of  the  dead  of  two  cen- 
turies ago  are  known  by  monument.  If  you  go 
back  a  thousand  years  the  number  is  very  small. 
If  you  seek  the  graves  of  mighty  men  or  renowned 
women  of  the  more  ancient  time,  say  three  thou- 
sand years  ago,  you  will  find,  except  in  Egypt,  few 
if  any  besides  the  cave  of  Machpelah  at  Hebron 
and  the  tomb  of  Rachel  on  the  way-side  between 
Jerusalem  and  Bethlehem. 

And  the  names  of  men  are  forgotten.  They  are 
merged  in  other  and  strange  sounds.  It  is  not  at 
all  certain  that  our  pronunciation  of  those  which 
have  been  handed  down  to  us  in  phonetic  charac- 
ters is  remotely  correct  For  all  purposes  of  iden- 
tification you  might  as  well  call  the  great  Macedo- 
nian Smith  or  Thompson  as  Alexander,  pronouncing 
the  word  "  Alexander  "  as  moderns  pronounce  it. 
The  Saracens  call  it  Iskander.  They  are  as  near 
right  as  we  are.  But  it  is  not  alone  the  names  which 
vanish.  The  greater  the  man  the  more  certain  it 
is  that  a  doubting  generation  will  arise  who  will 
pronounce  the  name  and  the  man  creatures  of  im- 
agination, pure  myths.  Homer  has  but  a  shadowy 
existence  as  a  person.  The  greatest  name  in  his- 
tory is  that  of  Moses,  giver  of  laws  not  only  to  Israel 
but  to  the  whole  race  of  civilized  men  to-day.    And 


174       ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

there  are  plenty  of  men  of  this  age  in  which  folly 
flourishes,  who  deny  that  there  ever  was  a  Moses. 
So  the  time  may  come  when  Washington  will  be 
the  name  of  a  shadow  as  unsubstantial  as  that  of 
William  Tell,  and  men  will  find  in  the  fact  that 
many  peoples  have  legends  of  great  and  good  lead- 
ers satisfactory  evidence  that  no  one  of  them  ever 
had  such  a  leader  in  veritable  flesh. 


XVIII 
SEEKING   A   BETTER   COUNTRY 

It  was  certainly  as  beautiful  a  spot  for  a  home  as 
one  could  find  in  this  world,  A  rolling  country, 
where  the  hills  were  sometimes  crowned  with  maple 
forests  in  autumnal  splendor  of  colors,  sometimes 
cultivated  to  and  over  their  ridges,  yellow  corn- 
fields glowing  with  vast  heaps  of  orange  -  colored 
pumpkins,  pasture  lands  in  which  good  cattle  were 
feeding  leisurely,  brush  lots  crimson  with  sumach, 
except  where  rich  blue  asters  made  spots  of  the 
earth  to  look  like  spots  of  the  sky. 

But  its  beauty  had  not  caused  it  to  be  thickly  in- 
habited, had  not  even  kept  the  population  here 
which  had  once  found  homes  in  the  valley ;  for  as 
my  horses  walked  slowly  up  the  hill  road  we  ap- 
proached a  house  which,  at  a  little  distance  off, 
looked  picturesque  and  pretty,  but  as  we  came 
nearer  was  found  to  have  only  the  beauty  of  ruin. 
It  was  a  deserted  farm-house. 

There  is  sometimes  beauty  in  ruin.  Nature  oc- 
casionally takes  hold  of  the  works  of  men's  hands 
and  shapes  and  decorates  them  to  be  very  beautiful. 


176  ALONG   NEW    ENGLAND   ROADS 

This  old  house  had  been  a  low  story-and-a-half  ten- 
ement, painted  red.  The  red  had  faded  and  been 
washed  into  a  score  of  tints,  which  only  old  tapes- 
tries and  embroideries  can  match.  Wild -cherry 
bushes,  growing  close  around  it,  were  trying  to 
match  them,  and  in  trying  made  with  their  leaves 
very  delicate  and  very  surprising  variations  and  con- 
trasts. There  was  a  spot  of  brilliant  color  which 
caught  my  eye  long  before  I  reached  the  house,  and 
when  I  came  up  to  it  I  discovered  that  a  young 
maple  had  sprung  up  in  the  shattered  door-step, 
and  filled  the  doorway  with  its  foliage,  mostly  of  a 
like  color  with  the  house,  only  there  was  a  bunch 
of  leaves  at  the  top,  all  as  golden  as  gold. 

Deserted  farm-houses  in  New  England  are  all 
alike  in  the  most  prominent  features,  generally  re- 
sembling each  other  in  many  minute  details.  For 
the  life  in  them  was  very  much  the  same,  and  the 
life  in  the  house  gives  specific  character  to  the  sur- 
roundings. The  worn  spot  on  the  little  piazza  of 
the  kitchen  end,  or  L,  is  again  and  again  visible, 
the  spot  where  the  farmer  sat  down  daily  for  a  little 
while  when  he  took  the  very  short  rest  which  the 
farmer  can  afford  to  give  himself  in  daylight.  The 
marks  on  the  inside  of  the  window-seat  are  almost 
always  there,  made  by  the  broken  mugs  and  tea- 
pots and  the  cans  and  boxes  in  which  his  wife  kept 
her  flowers  growing  when  frost  drove  them  in-doors 
for  the  winter.     Her  garden  is  always  there,  and  I 


SEEKING   A   BETTER   COUNTRY  177 

know  a  place  where  I  go  and  gather  roses  some- 
times from  bushes  in  a  dense  tangle,  which  were 
the  garden  roses  of  a  farm-house  that  utterly  van- 
ished more  than  fifty  years  ago. 

I  drove  on,  still  slowly  uphill,  and  after  a  little 
saw  the  customary  burial-ground,  enclosed  by  a 
stone-wall,  only  a  few  rods  from  the  road-side.  Go- 
ing to  it  I  found  four  upright  stones,  and  on  one 
of  them  read  a  name,  and  an  inscription  which  was 
somewhat  startling :  "  But  now  they  desire  a  better 
country." 

Why  do  so  many  people  make  the  mistake  of  ex- 
pecting to  find  that  better  country  by  going  off  on 
railways.''  There  is  nowhere  on  earth  a  better 
country  than  this  Northern  New  England  country. 
When  we  get  a  reasonable  amount  of  common- 
sense  into  legislatures  and  law-makers ;  when  they 
get  to  realizing  what  a  good  country  theirs  is,  and 
how  good  it  can  always  be  if  they  will  preserve  the 
glory  of  their  forests  from  the  axe  and  the  purity 
of  their  streams  from  the  saw-mill,  it  will  be  safe  for 
any  one  to  make  a  home  in  it  for  the  time  he  must 
spend  among  the  things  that  are  uncertain. 

Vermont  and  New  Hampshire  are  becoming 
wide-awake  to  the  extensive  abandonment  of  farms 
and  the  gradual  decrease  of  the  best  element  in  the 
population.  The  people  are  inquiring  into  the 
cause,  with  a  view  to  finding  a  cure  for  the  dis- 
ease. It  is  a  disease,  and  it  is  a  disease  which 
12 


178  ALONG    NEW    ENGLAND    ROADS 

affects  the  community  and  the  State  by  affecting 
individuals. 

The  inscription  on  that  gravestone  suggests  the 
explanation  of  the  disease.  Those  old  people  who 
are  never  going  to  travel  off  in  search  of  a  new 
home  in  the  Far  West  were  contented  and  happy 
enough  in  the  red  farm-house,  looking  for  a  better 
country  beyond  all  seas,  all  possibilities  of  travel  in 
the  flesh.  Later  generations  were  not  contented. 
Life  was  hard,  and  they  thought  to  find  a  place 
where  it  would  be  easier.  They  went  to  a  large 
town,  to  a  city,  to  the  West.  It  is  beyond  a  doubt 
that  they  went  to  less  happiness,  to  harder  labor, 
with  smaller  reward.  Not  one  in  ten  bettered  his 
condition  by  the  going.  If  you  had  known  the  per- 
sonal history  of  as  many  country  families  who  have 
moved  away  from  the  old  places  as  I  have  known, 
you  would  understand  why  I  am  so  ready  to  affirm 
that  the  great  body  of  New  England  emigrants  who 
have  gone  away  from  these  farms  have  done  worse 
than  they  would  have  done  had  they  remained  in 
the  old  homes. 

Is  it  probable  that  the  efforts  now  made  to  turn 
the  tide  of  emigration  and  lead  it  into  instead  of 
out  of  New  Hampshire  and  Vermont  will  succeed  ? 

Why  not?  The  land  is  fruitful  and  beautiful. 
The  climate  is  wholesome  and  enjoyable.  What  is 
there  to  keep  people  away?  Nothing,  except  that 
vague  idea  which  is  so  universally  deceptive  that 


SEEKING  A  BETTER  COUNTRY        179 

the  better  country,  where  one  may  grow  rich  with 
ease,  may  live  well  without  much  labor,  lies  far  off 
at  the  end  of  a  railway  or  a  steamer  journey. 

There  are  some  characteristics  of  American  fam- 
ilies in  which  they  differ  greatly  from  people  of 
other  countries.  One  of  these  is  in  their  ideas  of 
what  form  the  necessaries  of  comfortable  life. 
That  which  goes  to  the  daily  support  of  a  humble 
family  in  America  would  support  in  luxury  two  or 
three  or  more  families  in  the  same  social  position 
in  old  countries.  There  are  a  hundred  considera- 
tions which  an  American  has  in  selecting  a  home 
which  no  European  would  stop  to  think  of.  I  do 
not  find  fault  with  these,  but  they  are  to  be  regard- 
ed in  seeking  the  causes  of  depopulation  of  por 
tions  of  the  country. 

Contentment  with  a  moderate  enough  is  not  an 
American  characteristic.  It  ceases  in  a  few  years 
to  characterize  Europeans  who  come  over  here  to 
settle.  The  "  enough  "  includes  too  many  things 
which  are  not  necessities.  '  Look  at  a  practical  il- 
lustration :  There  are  great  numbers  of  American 
families  in  cities  who  are  in  what  are  called  reduced 
circumstances.  Men,  women,  sometimes  husbands 
and  wives,  have  but  small  incomes.  They  have  a 
hard  time  to  get  food  and  clothing  in  the  position 
and  with  the  surroundings  to  which  they  have  been 
accustomed.  They  suffer ;  their  lives  are  full  of 
struggling  anxiety,  pains,  too  often  debts.     They 


l8o       ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

are  unfitted  for  work,  and  work,  if  they  were  able  to 
do  it,  is  not  easy  to  get.  Thousands  of  these  per- 
sons cling  to  life  in  the  city,  where  rents  are  high, 
where  food  is  costly,  where  the  requirements  of 
dress  seem  to  demand  much  expense.  Now  at  the 
same  time  you  have  the  broad  country,  especially 
New  Hampshire  and  Vermont,  with  these  facts: 
The  average  expense  of  living  of  a  family  is  not 
$500  a  year,  and  this  furnishes  better  and  more 
abundant  food,  better  and  more  clothing,  better 
everything  that  men  and  women  need,  than  can  be 
found  anywhere  else  in  the  world.  You  can  hire 
a  house  for  $100  a  year  in  the  country  which  is 
more  roomy  and  comfortable  than  any  house  you 
can  hire  for  $1000  anywhere  within  miles  of  Mad- 
ison Square.  You  can  get  better  board  the  year 
round  in  country  places  at  $3,  $4,  and  $5  a  week 
than  you  can  get  in  a  city  for  $13,  $14,  or  $15. 

But  if  you  suggest  to  the  persons  struggling  on 
small  incomes  in  city  life  that  they  go  to  the  far-off 
country  villages  of  New  England  to  live  and  be 
happy,  they  shrink  with  apprehensions  they  cannot 
define  from  what  seems  miserable  exile.  I  am  not 
the  one  to  make  light  of  those  desires,  tastes,  habits 
of  life  which  form  the  comforts  and  shape  the  pleas- 
ures of  all  of  us.  No  one  can  be  happy  for  any  one 
else.  But  if  the  people  who  cling  to  life  in  cities 
and  expensive  towns  could  be  persuaded  to  con- 
sider with  common-sense  the  question  whether,  after 


SEEKING  A  BETTER  COUNTRY        l8l 

all,  life  in  the  country,  with  its  abundant  enjoyments 
and  employments,  and  its  small  expense,  is  not  the 
life  they  ought  to  adopt,  it  is  probable  that  we 
should  see  a  beginning  of  the  repeopling  of  aban- 
doned farms,  and  a  new  growth  of  a  valuable  popu- 
lation. A  new  generation  might  grow  up  to  love 
home  well  enough  to  live  and  die  in  it. 

It  is  not  at  all  probable  that  the  New  England 
States  will  recall  to  their  homes  the  same  people,  or 
call  to  them  the  same  kind  of  people,  who  have  left 
them.  A  new  age  has  begun  for  all  the  eastern 
country.  Wealth  has  increased  in  cities.  The  cus- 
tom of  having  a  country  as  well  as  a  city  home  is 
largely  on  the  increase.  Before  many  years  all 
parts  of  the  country  which  are  healthy  and  attract- 
ive will  draw  purchasers  of  lands  for  country  homes. 
Where  a  few  will  seek  such  homes  in  fashionable 
localities  for  society  pleasures,  hundreds  will  seek 
them  in  more  economical  and  quite  as  enjoyable 
places.  More  and  more  families  will  go  into  the 
country  for  the  whole  year.  More  and  more  men 
will  retire  from  active  business  on  small  fortunes, 
instead  of  remaining  in  it  to  increase  them,  with 
the  hundred  to  one  chances  of  coming  to  grief  and 
losing  all.  People  of  moderate  means,  and  people 
of  wealth,  too,  will  learn  how  much  nobler  is  a  race 
of  children  brought  up  in  the  country  than  a  race 
brought  up  in  the  city.  And,  to  bring  this  to  a 
close,  the  man  who  can  count  on  an  income  of  $800 


l82       ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

a  year  while  he  has  a  family  to  support  and  care 
for,  will  be  wise  enough  to  go  where  he  can  buy  a 
house  and  fifty  or  a  hundred  acres  of  land  for  $io  or 
$20  an  acre,  and  live  like  a  prince  on  his  own  estate 
from  its  produce,  with  an  outside  income  of  six  or 
seven  hundred.  But  even  there  he  must  work.  The 
better  country  than  the  city  is  beyond  doubt  the 
free  land  of  fields  and  forests.  But  work  and  weari- 
ness he  must  have  forever  on  this  soil  of  earth,  nor 
will  there  be  work  without  weariness  anywhere  until 
he  shall  reach  the  better  country  far  away,  which 
the  inhabitants  of  the  old  red  farm-house  desired 
and  I  hope  found. 


XIX 

A  WINTER  NIGHT'S  ERRAND 

This  is  the  story  which  the  doctor  told  me. 

Ezekiel  Crofton's  farm  was  on  the  slope  of  the 
hill,  two  miles  in  a  straight  line  from  the  village. 
But  to  reach  it  you  had  to  go  more  than  two  miles 
down  the  valley,  and  a  long  one  up  the  hill  road.  A 
deep  ravine,  wherein  flowed  a  noble  trout  stream, 
cut  off  the  farm  from  more  direct  communication 
with  the  village.  But  the  farm-house,  with  its  barns 
and  out -houses,  was  a  conspicuous  object  in  the 
landscape,  as  seen  from  the  back  windows  of  the 
doctor's  library. 

There  was  sickness  at  the  farm.  Ezekiel's  wife 
and  Susie's  mother  lay  ill,  and  the  doctor  had  left 
her  late  in  the  afternoon  with  no  little  anxiety.  But 
he  had  other  patients,  for  it  was  a  sickly  winter. 
So  Susie  was  instructed  what  to  do  if  her  mother 
grew  worse.  It  was  of  no  use  to  give  Ezekiel  orders. 
He  was  crazy.  Trouble  like  this  had  never  entered 
the  farm-house  before.  Susie  was  to  watch  her 
mother,  and  report  by  a  simple  telegraph.  The 
doctor  set  the  tall  clock  by  his  watch.     At  ten 


184       ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

o'clock,  at  midnight,  and  at  two  o'clock,  if  her  moth- 
er should  be  worse,  or  if  certain  indications  ap- 
peared, Susie  was  to  burn  a  blaze  of  straw  on  the 
snow-bank  in  front  of  the  house.  The  doctor 
would  see  it  and  drive  out. 

It  was  a  cold  night  and  the  moon  was  young. 
The  snow  lay  three  feet  deep  on  a  level.  A  slight 
thaw,  followed  by  a  freeze,  had  left  a  glassy  crust 
over  everything.  Then  three  inches  of  light  snow 
had  fallen  without  wind  over  this  crust.  It  was 
after  dark  when  the  doctor  reached  home  that  night, 
and  he  was  a  weary  man.  Did  I  say  he  lived  alone 
in  his  house  ?  Yet  not  alone,  for  one  who  had  been 
its  light  until  a  few  years  before  never  seemed  to 
him  absent  from  it.  And  though  now,  as  he  sat 
before  the  big  fire,  no  one  sat  visibly  by  him,  there 
was  a  cheery  look  on  his  face,  just  as  there  used  to 
be  when  he  sat  there  and  talked  to  her.  It  is  a 
wonderful  joy,  that  which  some  hearts  have,  of  liv- 
ing with  those  they  love,  whether  gone  away  on  a 
visit,  or  gone  across  what  men  call  the  river  of 
death. 

Dinner  was  on  the  table.  Jupiter  (son  of  Jupiter, 
who  was  also  son  of  Jupiter,  slave  of  the  doctor's 
grandfather  in  that  same  village)  stood  while  his 
master  ate  and  drank.  He  never  believed  in  the 
relationship  between  Burgundy  and  gout ;  and  many 
a  bottle  of  good  sound  wine  of  the  Wind-mill  Vine- 
yard found  its  way  from  his  cellar  to  the  lips  of 


A  WINTER    night's    ERRAND  185 

the  sick  poor.  The  valley  was  a  rich  one,  but 
the  poor  are  always  and  everywhere.  Would  that 
such  physicians  with  such  cellars  were  equally 
abundant. 

"  Watch  Mr.  Crof ton's  farm  from  five  minutes 
before  to  five  minutes  after  ten,  and  again  at 
midnight,"  said  he  to  Jupiter.  And  the  dark  eyes 
set  in  ebony  could  be  perfectly  trusted. 

The  doctor  was  asleep  on  a  lounge  when  mid- 
night passed.  There  had  been  no  signal  from  the 
farm.  At  two  he  stood  at  the  back  window  and 
saw  the  blaze  flash  up  from  Susie's  bonfire,  for  the 
poor  girl  was  frightened  and  heaped  the  straw 
high.  By  the  successive  flashes  he  knew  that  she 
was  throwing  it  on  in  armfuls,  and  that  there  was 
great  trouble  and  fear  at  the  farm-house. 

The  weather  had  changed.  It  was  still  cold  but 
cloudy,  and  a  snow-storm  was  hastening  on.  There 
were  plenty  pf  horses  in  the  stable,  and  two  power- 
ful sorrels  plunged  out  of  the  gate-way  and  down 
the  broad  village  street,  bringing  up  with  a  fierce 
rattle  of  the  bells  in  front  of  the  stone  house  near 
the  church  where  lived  the  clergyman.  He,  too, 
was  ready,  for  he  had  received  warning  from  the 
doctor  in  the  early  evening  and  had  watched.  I 
am  tempted  to  speak  of  him,  that  man  whose  mem- 
ory is  cherished  by  so  many,  who  lived  and  died 
for  those  over  whom  he  was  appointed.  But  there 
is  no  space  here.     They  two  were  men  after  one 


1 86       ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

another's  hearts.  Happy  the  village  with  such  a 
pair  of  doctors. 

And  now  the  wintry  part  of  the  story  begins. 
For  as  they  started  a  gust  of  wind  met  them,  whirl- 
ing the  light  snow  which  lay  on  the  frozen  crust. 
When  they  left  the  well-beaten  village  street  and 
took  the  road  down  the  valley  a  stiff  gale  was 
blowing.  The  track  had  been  cut  down  like  a 
deep  canal  between  two  banks,  and  the  drift  of 
the  light  snow  which  lay  on  the  crust  was  fast  fill- 
ing it.  It  grew  darker,  for  the  moon  was  just  set- 
ting, and  it  began  to  snow  heavily.  The  runners 
cut  deep  in  the  hard  pack.  The  horses  were  well 
used  to  such  work,  but  there  are  impossibilities  on 
roads  before  the  best  teams,  and  they  found  the 
first  of  these  when  the  sorrels  plunged  into  a  heavy 
drift  at  the  fork  of  the  road  where  you  turn  up  tow- 
ards Ezekiel  Crofton's.  Thus  far  they  had  come  at 
little  faster  than  a  walk,  but  for  a  few  rods  the 
horses  had  found  light  pulling  and  were  on  a  swift 
trot  when  they  plunged  into  this  drift  which  lay  di- 
agonally across  the  road,  full  six  feet  deep.  Down 
they  went,  while  the  doctors  and  the  robes  went  in 
a  confused  mass  over  on  the  crust  at  the  road-side. 

No  one  was  hurt,  and  at  the  voice  of  their  mas- 
ter, who  was  at  their  heads  in  an  instant,  the  sor- 
rels recognized  the  situation  and  stood  up.  The 
drift  was  wide  as  well  as  deep,  and  the  men  right- 
ed the   sleigh,  gathered   up   the   scatterings,  then 


A   WINTER    night's    ERRAND  187 

broke  a  road  through  the  drift  by  trampling,  and 
led  the  horses  through  and  around  the  sharp  turn 
into  the  hill  road.  All  was  made  right,  and  they 
went  on  now  very  slowly ;  for  the  whole  track  was 
filled  to  the  level  of  the  banks,  and  the  track  on 
this  less  travelled  road  was  narrow,  and  had  been 
imperfectly  broken  before  the  new  drift  filled  it.  A 
hundred  yards  from  the  turn  the  left  runner  rose 
over  a  lump,  caught  the  hard  bank  at  the  side,  and 
lifted  the  sleigh  so  gently  but  so  swiftly  that  as  the 
doctor  said  "Whoa"  he  found  himself  lying  in 
deep  snow,  a  buffalo  robe  over  him,  and  the  minis- 
ter on  the  buffalo  robe.  The  horses  had  heard 
the  word  and  stopped.  This  was  a  simple  upset,  a 
common  enough  affair  to  both  of  them.  But  a 
trace-hook  had  torn  out,  and  it  took  ten  minutes 
to  mend  it,  for  now  they  missed  the  lantern  which 
had  not  been  recovered  at  the  first  place  of  empty- 
ing the  sleigh. 

I  will  not  dwell  on  the  many  incidents  of  that 
struggle,  which  the  doctor  related  with  keen  en- 
joyment of  the  memory.  It  was  a  serious  piece  of 
business  then.  Sometimes  it  would  have  been  lu- 
dicrous, but  for  the  solemn  errand  that  took  them 
out  in  that  tempestuous  night  among  the  hills.  The 
storm  increased,  and  the  snow  fell  fast  and  deep 
and  drifted  into  heaps.  Again  and  again  they 
were  upset  until  they  ceased  to  count  the  times. 
Now  they  went  ahead  and  broke  the  way  on  foot 


1 88       ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

for  the  horses.  Now  they  took  the  horses  out  of 
the  sleigh,  mounted  and  rode  them  a  little  way  to 
break  road,  and  returned  for  the  sleigh.  Many 
good  reasons  forbade  abandoning  it.  They  were 
more  than  two  hours  on  the  half-mile  between  the 
fork  of  the  roads  and  the  first  farm-house.  Here 
they  roused  the  people  and  held  a  consultation. 
Farmer  Brown  had  six  oxen  in  a  stable  a  quar- 
ter of  a  mile  off  the  road.  He  and  his  boys  went 
for  them.  It  took  an  hour  or  more  to  get  them 
to  the  house,  and  the  boys  came  near  perishing. 
But  who  would  not  have  worked  that  night,  at  any 
risk,  to  get  the  parson  and  the  doctor  to  the  bed- 
side of  Mrs.  Crofton  ?  The  six  oxen  were  put  into 
the  road,  and  driven  up  the  hill  through  the  drifts. 
Slowly  and  with  infinite  toil,  shouting  and  encour- 
agement, they  floundered  on.  The  sorrels  followed 
in  the  track  they  broke.  It  stopped  snowing,  with 
the  atmosphere  far  below  zero,  as  the  gray  dawn 
came,  and  it  was  broad  daylight  when  they  entered 
the  back  gate  of  the  Crofton  farm-yard. 

The  roadway  to  the  door  crossed  a  hillock  in 
front  of  the  house,  and  the  wind  had  swept  it  clean 
of  drift.  The  horses  sprang  up  the  apparently 
clear  track,  but  at  the  very  summit  again  the  left 
runner  flew  high  and  the  last  upset  was  accom- 
plished. In  full  view  of  the  windows,  as  if  it  were 
a  circus  show,  the  two  doctors  shot  into  the  air  and 
clutched  each  other  before  they  struck  the  glassy 


A   WINTER   night's    ERRAND  1 89 

surface  of  the  hillock.  They  struck  in  a  slanting 
fall  and  slid  to  the  verge  of  the  short  but  sharp 
descent.  There  was  nothing  to  catch  hold  of,  so 
they  held  tight,  each  to  the  other,  and  went  like 
projectiles  down  the  icy  slope,  head  first,  into  a 
deep  soft  bed  of  snow.  Ezekiel  Crofton's  New- 
foundland dog  was  on  the  spot  as  their  heads  dis- 
appeared, and  then  nothing  was  visible  for  a  mo- 
ment but  his  huge  black  skin  and  the  doctor's 
boots  and  one  leg  of  the  minister,  at  which  the  dog 
was  tugging  as  if  to  save  a  drowning  man. 

So  ended,  and  ended  joyously,  too,  the  merciful 
errand  of  that  night.  For  the  doctor,  when  he  en- 
tered the  sick-room,  found  Susie  in  a  wild  excite- 
ment, and  her  mother  sitting  up  in  bed  laughing, 
and  out  of  danger.  I  don't  know  what  the  doctor 
called  the  disease  of  which  she  was  supposed  to 
be  dying.  It  was  some  trouble  of  the  throat.  She 
had  been  lying  with  her  face  towards  the  window, 
gasping.  Even  in  the  hour  of  death,  when  she  was 
looking  into  the  light  as  of  the  last  earthly  morn- 
ing, the  scene  had  overpowered  all  sense  of  solem- 
nity, and  the  burst  of  laughter  had  removed  the 
trouble  which  was  killing  her. 

It  might  do  you  good,  once  in  a  while  these  win- 
ter nights,  when  you  wake  warm  and  comfortable 
in  your  city  bed,  to  think  what  possible  errands 
men  like  those  two  may  just  then  be  out  on  in  the 
up  country. 


XX 

HINTS  FOR  CARRIAGE  TRAVEL 

First,  as  to  horses.  There  is  a  common  idea  that 
heavy  horses  are  not  as  good  travellers  as  lighter 
animals.  This  does  not  accord  with  my  experience 
in  really  working-horses.  For  a  spurt,  or  a  day  or 
two  of  hard  driving,  it  may  well  be  that  light  horses 
will  go  faster  and  come  in  less  worried  than  heavier 
animals.  But  for  continuous  travelling,  with  a  rea- 
sonably heavy  load,  day  after  day,  taking  any  and 
every  kind  of  road,  ascending  and  descending  hills 
and  mountains,  it  is  my  opinion  after  long  experi- 
ence that  strong,  heavy  horses  are  more  trustworthy 
and  useful,  do  their  work  with  less  fatigue,  and  do 
it  better.  My  black  horses,  Ned  and  Jack,  now 
grown  old  and  living  in  almost  inglorious  idleness, 
weigh  twelve  hundred  and  fifty  each,  I  have  a 
pair  of  grays  that  weigh  short  twelve  hundred  each. 
My  carriage  with  my  regular  travel  load  weighs  a 
trifle  under  fourteen  hundred.  Either  pair  of  horses 
will  take  us  along  on  roads  up  hill  and  down  at  an 
average  gait  of  five  miles  to  the  hour.  This  is  fast 
enough  for  one  to  drive  who  travels  to  see  every- 


HINTS  FOR  CARRIAGE  TRAVEL       19 I 

thing  that  is  to  be  seen  on  both  sides  of  the  road. 
It  may  happen,  after  a  day  of  loitering  along,  that  I 
find  myself  towards  evening  eight  or  ten  miles  from 
my  proposed  resting-place.  My  horses  can  do  that 
in  an  hour,  and  come  in  in  good  order.  I  seldom 
average  over  twenty-five  miles  a  day.  But,  on  occa- 
sion, I  drive  forty-five  miles  a  day,  without  fatigue 
to  these  horses.  Few  light  horses  can  be  depended 
on  for  such  little  afternoon  spurts,  or  such  extra 
days,  over  rough  or  mountainous  roads,  on  a  jour- 
ney of  four  or  five  hundred  miles,  with  three-fourths 
of  a  ton  behind  them. 

A  comfortable  carriage,  comfortable  for  both 
horses  and  travellers,  is  a  very  rare  object  in  our 
day.  The  tendency  of  late  years  has  been  to  build 
carriages  to  be  looked  at,  or  to  show  off  the  persons 
and  dresses  of  the  occupants.  With  this  has  grown 
the  fashion  of  building  carriages  with  narrow  box 
seats,  into  which  two  persons  can  crowd  side  by 
side  only  by  wedging  as  they  take  their  seats. 

In  carriage  travel  the  primary  considerations  for 
the  vehicle  are  strength  and  roominess.  Don't  save 
a  hundred  or  two  pounds  of  weight  at  the  expense 
of  strength.  Get  horses  that  will  draw  your  load, 
and  don't  sacrifice  safety  and  sureness.  By  sure- 
ness,  I  mean  this  :  that  a  break-down  in  a  lonesome 
road,  miles  from  a  blacksmith,  is  an  unpleasant  ac- 
cident. 

Breadth  of  beam  is  what  you  need  to  give  room. 


192       ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

Your  running-gear  must  be  of  the  ordinary  gauge 
in  use  in  the  country  you  travel  in,  and  your  car- 
riage-box as  wide  as  possible  on  that  gear.  The 
seats  should  be  so  wide  that  two  persons  can  sit  on 
them  with  room  between  them  for  a  book,  or  a 
small  bag,  or  any  little  traps.  The  front  and  back 
seat  should  be  on  a  level.  I  generally  travel  with 
three  in  the  carriage,  one  on  the  back  seat,  myself 
and  coachman  on  the  front  seat.  This  leaves  am- 
ple room  on  the  back  seat  and  bottom  for  books, 
maps,  flowers  that  we  gather,  wraps,  and  the  small 
impedimenta  of  travel  -,  while  a  rack  behind  the  car- 
riage holds  the  trunks,  which  are  not  heavy,  but 
with  their  leverage  power  balance  the  weight  of  two 
on  the  front  seat  and  make  even  springs.  It  is  well 
that  the  carriage  top  be  an  ordinary  extension  top, 
reaching  forward  over  the  front  seat,  which  can  be 
thrown  completely  back  and  lie  on  the  baggage.  In 
soft  October  days  there  is  vast  delight  in  riding  in 
the  sunshine. 

To  those  who  travel  for  the  enjoyments  which  we 
desire,  it  is  objectionable  to  have  a  carriage  door. 
The  side  should  present  no  impediment  to  frequent 
stepping  out  and  in,  and  the  footsteps  should  be 
broad  and  roughened.  You  see  a  flower,  a  bunch 
of  moss,  a  stone;  innumerable  objects  along  the 
road-side  attract  your  eye ;  and  you  get  out  scores 
of  times  and  get  in  again  with  your  treasure.  As 
the  day  passes  you  accumulate  a  heap  of  such 


HINTS    FOR    CARRIAGE   TRAVEL  1 93 

things  that  you  have  examined  and  talked  about 
after  gathering.  Towards  evening,  as  you  approach 
your  resting-place,  out  they  go  on  the  road-side. 
Two-thirds  of  the  pleasure  and  profit  of  this  travel 
is  in  thus  getting  out  of  the  carriage,  sometimes  for 
only  an  instant. 

Going  up  or  down  hill  I  often  stop,  for  the  reason 
that  I  have  a  brake.  I  italicize  the  word  because  it 
is  so  absolutely  essential  to  the  comfort  and  safety 
of  both  travellers  and  horses.  It  is  marvellous  that 
in  ordinary  hilly  country  so  few  persons  have  brakes 
on  their  pleasure  carriages,  buggies,  or  business 
wagons.  One  can  be  easily  attached  to  any  vehicle 
by  any  blacksmith,  and  will  add  years  to  the  healthy 
life  of  your  horses.  No  trouble  is  more  common 
with  horses  than  lameness  in  the  fore-legs  or  shoul- 
ders. This  comes,  in  countless  instances,  from  trot- 
ting downhill  with  a  load  behind.  The  horse  is  not 
free  in  action.  If  he  were  at  perfect  liberty  he 
would  go  lightly,  set  his  feet  down  with  instinctive 
certainty  and  without  pounding.  But  he  has  a  load, 
pulling  by  traces  on  his  fore-shoulders,  jerking  pulls, 
now  following  fast  on  him,  now  brought  up  sud- 
denly by  a  stone  or  a  water-bar.  No  horse  thus 
encumbered  can  trot  downhill  without  constant 
danger  of  pounding  his  fore-feet  heavily  down,  pro- 
ducing a  strain  in  the  shoulder,  perhaps  twisting 
his  leg  or  ankle  when  his  foot  goes  down  on  a 
stone,  or  somewhere  where  he  does  not  mean  to 
13 


194      ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

put  it.  So,  too,  the  strain  of  holding  back  a  heavy 
load,  with  the  breeching  around  the  thighs,  pro- 
duces the  same  effects.  Of  course  no  one  will  be 
guilty  of  trying  northern  travel  with  a  light  harness 
and  no  breechings. 

I  repeat,  for  the  benefit  of  all  the  race  of  carriage 
horses,  as  well  as  for  the  benefit  of  those  who  own 
and  value  horses,  that  in  a  hilly  country  every  buggy, 
wagon,  and  carriage  should  be  provided  with  a  brake. 
It  is  hardly  necessary  to  add  that  for  the  pleasure- 
traveller,  who  wants  to  stop  anywhere  along  the 
road-side,  it  is  indispensable.  In  western  Massa- 
chusetts and  Connecticut,  Vermont,  and  New  Hamp- 
shire, a  steady  uphill  grade  of  two  or  three  miles  is 
a  common  feature  of  roads,  and  it  is  not  uncommon 
to  find  a  mountain  pass  where  the  road  is  uphill 
for  six,  eight,  or  ten  miles.  If  one  desires  a  glorious 
ride,  let  him  drive  from  Westfield  in  Massachusetts 
to  Norfolk  in  Connecticut,  and  learn  how  to  ascend 
and  descend  hills  for  the  sake  of  every  variety  of 
scenery.  But  if  he  try  that  country  without  strong 
horses,  a  stout  carriage,  and  a  safe  brake,  he  will 
chance  to  come  to  grief,  with  no  help  in  sight. 

Look  well  to  the  bolts  which  attach  the  pole  and 
hauling -gear  to  your  carriage.  Many  carriage- 
builders  neglect  this.  A  heavy  carriage,  with  abun- 
dant iron -work,  warranted  strong,  will  often  be 
found  drawn  by  two  small  iron  bolts  in  thin  rings, 
both  of  which  are  daily  wearing  weaker.   Reinforce 


HINTS  FOR  CARRIAGE  TRAVEL       195 

iron -work  with  straps.  Iron  is  poor  stuff  to  de- 
pend on  ;  "  there's  nothing  like  leather."  Have  a 
strong  neck-yoke  or  strong  hold-back  on  the  end 
of  your  pole.  A  brake  saves  danger  there,  but 
you  cannot  be  too  safe.  Don't  forego  safety  for 
the  sake  of  beauty.  Travel  to  look,  not  to  be 
looked  at. 

Don't  trust  your  horses  to  the  attention  of  host- 
lers, but  when  you  reach  a  resting-place,  secure 
their  comfort  for  the  night  before  you  secure  your 
own.  If  you  love  your  horses  as  I  love  mine,  you 
will  need  no  such  advice.  When  you  start  in  the 
morning  take  a  thorough  look  over  your  harness 
and  carriage,  to  see  that  all  is  right  for  the  road. 
Talk  a  little  while  with  the  horses  before  you  start, 
chat  with  them  once  in  a  while  along  the  road,  es- 
pecially if  you  happen  to  be  walking  uphill  beside 
them  or  before  them,  and  always  make  sure  to 
speak  with  them  when  the  day's  work  is  done. 

Cleanliness  prevails  in  north-country  inns.  In 
an  experience  of  thousands  of  miles  of  travel  along 
New  England  roads,  during  many  years,  my  note- 
book records  only  three  or  four  instances  where  I 
was  compelled  to  write  "  not  clean  "  of  the  inn  in 
which  I  passed  the  night.  Food  is  abundant  ev- 
er}'where  and  of  the  best  quality.  Good  bread, 
and  milk,  fresh  eggs,  fruits,  vegetables,  preserved  or 
cooked  fruits,  cake  made  in  great  variety — these  are 
fpund  on  every  table.     There  has  been  in  former 


196       ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

years  a  universal  idea  that  beefsteak  was  essential 
to  a  traveller's  supper  and  breakfast.  Country- 
killed  beef,  however  good  in  flavor,  is  generally 
very  tough  and  hard.  The  certainty  of  the  ap- 
pearance of  this  tough  beefsteak  has  led  me  to 
adopt  the  custom  of  saying  when  I  enter  an  inn, 
"  Don't  give  us  any  beef."  I  recommend  the  trav- 
eller by  carriage  to  follow  my  example.  I  have 
never  found  in  Europe  or  America  finer  mutton  or 
lamb  than  is  abundant  with  us  all  along  our  drives. 
You  should  carry  your  own  tea  and  coffee. 

The  roads  are  fairly  good,  but  we  notice,  espe- 
cially in  Vermont,  a  manifest  deterioration  from 
year  to  year  in  their  character.  They  are  growing 
poorer,  and  this  is  perhaps  due  to  the  fact  that  the 
towns  are  growing  poorer. 

The  whole  system  of  road-making  by  town-tax 
is  bad.  It  is  not  to  be  expected  that  a  poor  town, 
which  happens  to  lie  on  a  route  of  travel  between 
two  or  more  populous  towns,  should  keep  up  first- 
class  roads  for  the  use  of  those  who  pay  nothing 
towards  them.  Nor  do  people  with  whom  road 
making  and  repairing  is  a  matter  of  annual  taxa- 
tion take  any  personal  interest  or  have  any  per- 
sonal pride  in  their  roads.  The  worst  mud  holes 
in  roads  are  frequently  in  front  of  good  farm- 
houses. It  would  take  the  farmer  an  hour,  with 
his  horses,  to  fill  up  such  a  hole  and  make  a  good 
road  by  his  front  door.     But  that  would  be  doing 


HINTS    FOR    CARRIAGE  TRAVEL  igf 

work  which  is  the  town's  business  to  do,  and  he 
would  get  no  pay  for  it ;  so  he  lets  it  alone.  If 
he  is  drawing  a  heavy  load  uphill  he  chocks  his 
wheels  with  a  stone  to  rest  his  horses,  and  drives 
on,  leaving  the  stone  in  the  road.  To  throw  it  out, 
and  to  throw  out  other  stones  left  by  other  team- 
sters, would  be  doing  town  work,  and  he  will  not 
do  that  in  hi?  own  town,  much  less  in  another 
town. 

Do  you  know  what  is  meant  by  "  working  out  the 
road-tax  ?"  Each  man's  proportion  of  work  is  as- 
sessed. He  has  so  many  days'  work  to  pay.  The 
times  of  working  on  roads  are  fixed  by  the  town  of- 
ficer. Carts,  horses,  ploughs,  etc.,  are  furnished  on 
order,  and  allowed  for  at  fixed  rates.  You  have 
seen  the  deliberate  slowness  with  which  day-labor- 
ers on  railways,  or  on  contract  work  in  city  streets, 
perform  their  labor.  These  men  are  lively  and 
swift  compared  with  the  country  farmer  when  work- 
ing out  his  road-tax.  The  gravel-bed  is  perhaps  a 
half-mile  down  the  road.  Four  or  five  men  with 
shovels  load  a  cart  there  in  three  minutes,  and  hav- 
ing loaded  it,  sit  down  and  smoke  and  chat  a  half- 
hour  till  it  returns  empty.  Down  on  the  roadway 
four  or  five  men  await  the  cart,  smoking  and  chat- 
ting, dump  and  spread  the  dirt  or  gravel  when  it 
comes,  taking  three  minutes  for  the  job,  and  smoke 
and  chat  a  half-hour  till  the  cart  comes  again.  If 
they   planted  and  gathered   crops   as  they  make 


t9S       ALONG  NEW  ENGLAND  ROADS 

roads,  they  would  starve.  It  is  not  because  they 
are  lazy  or  indolent.  These  are  men  of  might  in 
their  own  affairs.  But  they  are  working  out  the 
road -tax,  and  who  ever  heard  that  a  man  ought 
to  work  in  payment  of  a  tax  as  he  works  for 
himself  ? 

It  is  rarely  necessary  to  drive  anywhere  in  Ver- 
mont or  New  Hampshire  more  than  ten  or  fifteen 
miles  to  find  a  good  inn.  Whether  going  north, 
south,  east,  or  west,  it  is  usually  practicable  to  ride 
pleasantly  in  the  forenoon  for  two  or  three  hours, 
stop  at  noon  to  feed  the  horses  and  get  luncheon, 
which  will  be  called  dinner,  drive  again  two,  three, 
or  four  hours  in  the  afternoon  and  strike  a  com- 
fortable inn  for  supper  and  night-lodging.  Day's 
drives  can  thus  be  adjusted  according  to  your 
pleasure.  You  will  linger  in  pleasant  places ;  you 
will  loiter  along  some  roadis ;  you  will  change  your 
preconceived  route  suddenly,  at  noon,  or  in  the 
morning,  or  along  the  road.  Sometimes  you  will 
drive  only  a  few  miles.  At  other  times  you  may 
be  induced  to  press  your  horses  to  their  extreme 
ability  in  order  to  reach  a  desired  resting  -  place. 
But  I  recommend  you  to  regard  your  horses  and 
do  not  give  them  hard  days'  works.  Let  them 
enjoy  the  travel  as  you  enjoy  it.  You  may  have 
great  confidence  in  the  health  and  strength  of  your 
horses,  but  do  not  forget  that  for  horses  as  for 
men,  travelling,  eating  in  various  places,  spending 


HINTS    FOR    CARRIAGE   TRAVEL  1 99 

nights  in  various  stables,  drinking  varieties  of  wa- 
ter, subjected  to  various  weather  exposures,  all  this 
is  very  different  from  home  life.  Oats  vary  as  much 
as  bread  varies.  Hay  is  a  very  variable  food.  Men 
will  assure  you  in  October  that  they  have  only  old 
oats,  and  sicken  your  horses  by  giving  them  grain 
threshed  three  weeks  ago,  unless  you  watch  them  ; 
and  it  is  by  no  means  easy  to  tell  new  oats  from 
old.  For  comfort  and  enjoyment  an  average  of 
twenty-five  miles  a  day  is  quite  enough  for  you  or 
your  horses.  If  you  enjoy  the  country,  with  its  in- 
numerable beauties,  you  will  often  be  content  with 
five  miles,  and  constantly  desire  to  remain  just 
where  you  are. 

Finally,  don't  be  in  a  hurry,  and  when  you  start 
out  for  the  day's  drive  do  not  start  with  the  deter- 
mination to  go  to  a  certain  place.  That  is  not 
what  you  are  taking  a  carriage  journey  for.  You 
may  and  will  fix  on  a  place  as  a  probable  end 
of  your  day,  but  don't  go  off  in  the  morning  with 
mind  set  on  reaching  there  as  the  day's  purpose. 
Loiter  along ;  stroll  in  the  woods ;  sit  awhile  on  a 
rock  by  the  side  of  a  lake ;  stop  long  on  the  hill- 
tops and  take  in  the  glory  of  American  scenery. 
If  you  are  an  angler,  your  rod,  unjointed  but  ready 
with  line,  leader,  and  flies,  lies  fore-and-aft  on  your 
carriage  seats,  and  many  a  brook  or  pond  or  lake, 
in  the  spring-time,  will  pay  you  for  a  cast.  In  the 
autumn  your  gun  lies  ready,  and  partridges  crossing 


20O  ALONG  NEW   ENGLAND   ROADS 

the  road  will  tempt  you  often  out  of  your  carriage. 
You  will  not  get  many,  but  you  will  have  all  the 
excitement,  and  may  now  and  then  carry  your  sup- 
per or  breakfast  in  with  you. 


THE   END 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  753  285     6 


